Promises & Threats
by slytherin-until-i-die
Summary: After locking horns in the courtroom for the third time in a week, the relationship that Rachel Dawes and Dr. Jonathan Crane share is somewhat frosty. But when Rachel's life is put in danger and what is left of the good doctor's sense of morality forces him to save her, will they realize how similar they really are? Rachel/Crane, language, smut, drugs, all the fun stuff.
1. Chapter 1

**So basically, I've fallen absolutely head-over-heels in love with this ship, so here's my first fic about them, ok? If you take the time to read this, please, PLEASE leave me a really quick review, I'd love to know what you think of my work. (Especially when I start writing smutty chapters - I promise I will this time - I'll need all the assurance that I'm not doing as horrendously as I think that I can get!) Just so you know, I've altered some of the scenes from the movie to make this fic work. Hope that's ok.**

**Rated M for sexual content, language and the mention/use of drugs.**

/

_One_

"And now," said Judge Faden resignedly into his microphone, pausing momentarily to briefly scan the notes on his desk. "May I ask Dr. Jonathan Crane, PhD, the director of the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, to take his place in the witness box?"

Rachel Dawes rolled her eyes and fought hard to suppress a disbelieving, humourless laugh – over the last week, Crane had been called to testify at the hearings of several of the crime lord Carmine Falcone's paid lackeys, and on each and every occasion so far his 'professional opinion' had quickly led to the jury deciding that a slap on the wrist and a spell in the asylum would be the best method of rehabilitation. And at that moment, as the lithe figure of the good doctor took his seat in the stand, Rachel would have bet every cent she owned that today's outcome would be no different. She sat back in her chair beside Carl Finch, Gotham's district attorney, and glared forward, her jaw set, her stomach churning in anger over the fact that the city's justice system had fallen so far in such a short space of time. The judges and juries and even the criminals of Gotham used to have at least something of an understanding of what was ethical, but now, social standing and personal finances meant everything, and the concept of justice, of impartiality, of _integrity_, had been warped and distorted so much that it was almost impossible to distinguish an allegedly honest man from the hordes of felons that prowled the streets. The man on trial today was Victor Zsasz – having already been found guilty of numerous counts of armed robbery and murder, Zsasz had been returned to downtown Gotham's courthouse to await sentencing.

His time of reckoning had come. "How do you feel about Mr Zsasz's current psychological condition, Dr. Crane?" asked Faden, lowering his gaze to the man in the witness box.

Leaning forward toward the microphone, Crane began his speech in the same polite, rehearsed manner he had adopted during the last two hearings. His piercing blue eyes, remarkable even from across the courtroom, caught Rachel's for a brief moment before glancing back up toward the judge. "In my opinion, Mr Zsasz is as much danger to himself as he is to others, and that prison is probably not the best environment for his rehabilitation," he said, his voice silky smooth.

Unable to control herself, Rachel was forced to disguise a sceptical laugh as a cough. Crane turned his head sharply in her direction, his gaze not angry as she had expected but inquisitive, and for a moment, her breath hitched in her throat. The expression on his striking face, in those ice cold eyes, caught her completely with her guard down and, try as she might, Rachel suddenly found it impossible to look away from him. Judge Faden was speaking again, presumably performing the traditional advisory ritual for the benefit of the jury, but for the first time since the beginning of her stint as assistant district attorney, she could safely say that she had tuned out her surroundings entirely. The courtroom faded to black and white, and all that remained in vivid, kaleidoscopic colour was herself and Dr. Jonathan Crane. His stare presented a challenge; it asked questions, demanded answers, sent a shock across her skin that she had never experienced before. For several seconds – although, to Rachel, it felt as though hours had passed – their gazes never left one another. Then Judge Faden's gavel came down on his desk. Crane turned his head back to the judge but kept his eyes on her.

"Mr Zsasz will be moved to Arkham Asylum's high-security unit immediately," he clarified, glancing at Rachel and raising his eyebrows. She blushed. Had she seen the silent confrontation that had taken place between herself and Crane? Faden removed his reading spectacles and tapped the gavel on the desk once more. "Court dismissed."

She noticed Finch relax in his chair and turn toward her out of the corner of her eye, but her attention was focused elsewhere – she watched Dr. Crane as he ran an elegant, long-fingered hand through his dark curls, gathered himself quickly and strode out of the courtroom, his path inches from where Rachel sat, stirring tendrils of her hair as he went. Consciously or not, Rachel inhaled, taking in the faint, lingering scent of cigarette smoke and cologne that Crane carried with him. She found herself holding her breath in an attempt to commit the smell to memory.

"No surprises there, then," murmured Finch. Embarrassed by the stupidity of her actions, Rachel exhaled sharply as she turned to him, ridding herself of the scent that continued to play around her nostrils.

"I can't believe that just happened," she stated plainly, not entirely sure herself which event in particular she was referring to. She shook her head. "All I'd like to know is how much Falcone's paying Crane to serve as his walking get-out-of-jail-free card." They stood and tucked their chairs back underneath the desk. Sighing, Rachel followed Finch as he led the way back toward the atrium.

/

Jonathan Crane tore his taunting eyes away from the district attorney's lovely assistant just in time to hear the judge announce the verdict on Zsasz's sentence. And of course, as could have been predicted, he was set to become yet another inmate at Arkham rather than Blackgate Penitentiary Prison. Some would have said that the two were very similar with only one subtle difference separating them: in the jail, the detention cells were specifically designed to protect a prisoner from those around them. At Arkham, it was to protect inmates from themselves. He had been drawn to the asylum in the first place by his increasing fascination with the human mind and its little quirks and complexities – after passing his final exams with flying colours and gaining his doctorate and PhD, his qualifications, quick judgement and uncanny ability to _understand _his patients with great ease were what had carried him easily up through the ranks at Arkham. In his position as director, he had unrestricted access to any documents or case files he needed or wanted to see, not to mention his own personal laboratory in which he was free to experiment after hours, a perk which had come in particularly handy over the last few months.

As a faithful and trusted doctor, the jury and the judge had simply been unable to deny Jonathan's opinion on where Zsasz should serve his custodial sentence. Of course, if they _had_, if the thug had been sent down to rot at Blackgate, he would not have batted an eyelid. Falcone and his men were being paid for their part in his drug smuggling operation – by taking advantage of his position at Arkham to help relieve Falcone's lackeys of jail time, he was doing a favour for a friend with access to high places. While it may be somewhat relevant to his own interests in the long-term, it was not entirely necessary.

Jonathan gave Rachel Dawes another fleeting look, this time unintentionally, as she stared up at the judge who promptly concluded the hearing. It amused him to know that she was clearly the only one in the courtroom with any sense of morality, any basic human instinct whatsoever – how on earth did the jury not realise that, for the third time that week, an offender was going to be sent to an peaceful padded cell for mollycoddling rather than to the prison he clearly deserved to perish in? No one had interceded, nor had they interfered. But Rachel... well, there was a spark of life in her that Jonathan had not been forced to face for a while in Gotham. The way she had audibly scoffed upon hearing his opinion showed grit to say the least. She was an intelligent woman; her body language, dubiously raised eyebrows and lack of concentration during the hearing went some way to prove that at least _she _knew what was going on. She was clearly aware of the connections he had forged with some dangerous people, yet she had allowed her defiance to manifest itself without a second thought. She showed no fear, while the rest of the city's people were riddled with it. It was part of their psyche, unconditional, unchanging. _But it will change_, a voice in the back of his mind thought meekly as he picked up his briefcase and rose from his seat. _The terrified people of Gotham are going to have to face their fears very soon, whether they want to or not_.

"Dr Crane?" came the unmistakable voice of the audacious assistant district attorney as Jonathan made his way toward the heavy front doors of Gotham's courthouse through the atrium. The wide hall was bright and airy, bustling with people in powdered wigs and robes, coming to and from various courtrooms and hearings. But still, he was able to pick out Rachel's voice through the cacophony. He stopped walking and turned around, cocking his head and she caught up with him.

"Miss Dawes," he greeted her, nodding politely before continuing dismissively on his way out of the building. Rachel followed him, to his surprise, shoving strands of her long hair back out of her face with her hands. He heard her exhale sharply, exasperatedly, and stopped, looking at her with wide eyes. Up close, for the first time since they had met at another hearing several days previously, he noticed a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose, not obvious against her tanned skin. He fought a smile as he observed this little quirk and returned his gaze to her eyes, chocolate brown, bright and fervent with misguided determination.

"Do you really think a man that butchers people for the mob doesn't belong in jail?" she asked, not accusingly, her voice probing. It reminded him of the godforsaken newspaper reporters that often hung around the asylum asking for information on his more high-profile patients.

He sighed slowly. "I would hardly have testified to that otherwise, would I, Miss Dawes?" His voice dripped with condescension, and he ignored the bizarre twitch he felt in the pit of his stomach when he was met with her affronted expression. He turned on his heel and managed another three paces in the direction of the exit before she spoke to him again.

"This is the third of Falcone's thugs you've had declared insane and moved into your asylum," she said, her voice strong, dashing forward with as much grace as she could clearly manage and blocking his way out. She stared into his face searchingly for a moment, and her jaw fell slack.

"Well, the work offered by organised crime must have an attraction to the insane," he told her, poker face firmly in place. His eyes bore into hers and she took a step closer to him, their faces now only inches apart. Rachel's lips pressed together into a hard line.

"Or the corrupt," she said, her voice soft but as challenging as it could be. _How dare she! _He had to admit, despite her evidently fiery nature, he was shocked she would make such a blatant insinuation to his face. He had to admire her passion, but a laugh at Rachel's tenacity was threatening to surface, so without a second glance Jonathan turned and walked around her, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes and noticing her superior exiting the men's bathroom as he went.

"Mr Finch," he addressed him. Finch looked up and took a step forward, opening his mouth to greet him. Jonathan cut him off before he had the opportunity. "I think you should check with Miss Dawes here..." He glanced back at Rachel, his expression mocking. Her eyes searched his face. Did he imagine that she shook her head in astonishment? "... just what implications your office has authorised her to make... if any." And with that, a fake brief smile in place, he nodded his goodbye to Finch and left the courthouse without another word to Rachel.

As soon as he stepped out into the muted afternoon sunlight and began his walk toward the Narrows, he lit a cigarette and pulled out his phone. Dialling the number he had memorised, the number that only a select handful of people had ever been given, he pulled in a lungful of smoke and held the phone to his ear. Falcone picked up on the second ring.

"What can I do for you, Dr. Crane?" Falcone drawled, his stateside lilting accent particularly evident over the phone.

"I'm sure you've already been notified, but in case you haven't, Zsasz's on his way to Arkham," he said, exhaling a long funnel of smoke. "Now no more freebies. I can't risk anyone finding out about what's going on."

"No fair, doc. You know what we agreed," said Falcone acidly. "You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. I'm bringing in the shipments."

"In return for _payment_," Jonathan clarified, taking a short drag off his cigarette. "I'm not an idiot, Mr. Falcone. I know you're not intimidated by me, or anyone..." He lowered his voice and glanced around, but the street he was idly walking along was empty. Ducking into an alley, he leant against a brick wall and flicked his cigarette ash onto the ground. "But when my employer arrives..."

"He's coming to Gotham?" demanded Falcone after a pause, his voice suddenly laced with concern.

"He certainly is," he confirmed disdainfully, smirking at the Falcone's evident panic. He continued walking, the road signs signalling Arkham Asylum coming thick and fast now. As far as the general public knew, the network of the mysterious Ra's Al Ghul was far-reaching and impenetrable, with countless levels and ranks that left the crime lord able to constantly avoid getting his hands dirty. His imminent arrival in Gotham would be sure to keep Falcone malleable, like putty in Jonathan's hands. "And I don't think he's going to be too pleased to hear that you've endangered our entire operation just to get your thugs out of a little jail time," he finished before inhaling once more.

Falcone didn't answer for a moment. "Dr. Crane," he began, a smile in his voice. "Why the sudden concern? You haven't had a problem with testifying on behalf of my men until now. Has someone got you spooked?"

Jonathan refused to show any sign of weakness. He sighed. "There's a girl at the DA's office that seems to have worked out a little more than she should," he told him, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall of a brick building as he walked. He thought back to half an hour ago when he had caught the eye of the effervescent Miss Dawes, her face stark with incredulity but not an ounce of _fear_. She had seemed entirely at ease with the situation – despite the outcome she had clearly not desired but had in some way anticipated – and her body language had not betrayed her. Thugs, crime lords and convicts did not intimidate the young assistant district attorney, but Jonathan could not help but wonder what did. Nobody was exempt from fear, not even the infallible, Little-Miss-Perfect Rachel Dawes. How many skeletons could be lurking in her closet? What was it that kept her awake at night, tossing and turning, warding off nightmares, waking her with a blood-curdling scream when it reached its horrifying peak?

Falcone laughed, a harsh, unnerving sound. "Why would that be an issue? We'll buy her off," he said plainly, a tapping that sounded like a pen on a desk resonating from the other end of the phone.

"Not this one," he assured him jadedly, immediately guessing what Falcone's next course of action would be.

"Idealist, huh?" Falcone chuckled blackly once. "Well... there's an answer to that too."

Of course.

"I don't want to know," said Jonathan, resisting the urge to roll his eyes apathetically as he climbed the front steps of the asylum that he had devoted his life and work to since his graduation.

"Yes, you do," muttered Falcone, then the line went dead.

Violence, he had learnt, was Carmine Falcone's number one solution to every problem that he faced, second only to giant corporate payouts of laundered money. But Jonathan knew Rachel's silence would not be bought – with her strong will, fixation with justice and vivacious personality, there was no way that she would accept payment in return for keeping her head down and allowing a few more of Falcone's lackeys to avoid incarceration. He almost sighed as he strode through the front doors of the asylum and headed down the main corridor toward the elevator. _Such a waste_, he thought idly. It was refreshing to find somebody so daring, so bold, so _fearless_, in a city where it was a challenge to simply make it home after work or go to the nearest corner store without becoming a victim of some sort of crime. For the second time that day, he found himself musing over what Rachel could possibly be afraid of as he turned his key in the elevator and felt the metal box carry him below the surface of the ground.

He'd have to make a point to ask her before she was killed.

/

**So guys, what do you think so far? Interested? Love it? Hate it? Either way, I would be truly grateful if you were to leave me a review. Long or short, I don't mind, anything will be brilliant! Chapter two should be up soon. The proper AU stuff is on its way, I promise! Not to mention the juicy bits too! ;) Just bear with me, and remember, reviews are what motivate me to write!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello there, beautiful readers! Thank you so much for your kind reviews! I had a look at the traffic stats and I was genuinely blown away by the support I've received for this story.**

**Here comes chapter two! :D**

**/**

_Two_

Rachel threw herself into her apartment, slammed the door behind her and sank down to the floor with her back against it, not even bothering to turn on the lights or remove her jacket. The room was cold and almost pitch-black, but her heart was racing and her feet ached – she could see herself remaining in the same position for a while. She exhaled slowly through her mouth and sucked in another gulp of air, slowly, progressively, in an attempt to regulate her breathing. And then came a wave of hazy fatigue as her body's adrenaline levels began to return to normal. Her limbs felt like lead, and she realised that she would have to move soon, otherwise she would fall asleep right then and there.

It was clear to Rachel what had happened. As soon as the mystifying Batman had warded off her armed pursuers and offered, by way of explanation, that she had 'rattled some cages', Rachel had been quick to deduce that Dr. Crane had been in touch with his superiors and warned them that she was on to him. The nerve of that man! Just three days ago he had captured her gaze with his own in that courtroom, his crystal clear eyes alight with curiosity as though they were delving deep into her soul. She recalled how her pulse had increased in tempo under his watchful scrutiny, his contemplative expression sending her mind into overdrive. Her head was filled with not only the plethora of insults she had considered in the courtroom, but questions, despite the fact that, at that moment, she decided that if she ever saw Dr. Jonathan Crane again it would be far too soon.

However, when she finally summoned up the strength to pull herself to her feet and collapse on her leather sofa rather than the floor, she flicked the television on and the first face she saw was that of the good doctor himself.

"I'm just doing what I believe to be right by my patients," Crane told the reporter patiently as she interviewed him on the front steps of Arkham Asylum. He smiled good-naturedly. "Despite the crimes they have committed, every person is entitled to the treatment they require and deserve. At Arkham we accommodate for all kinds of-"

Snorting derisively, Rachel turned the television back off before he could finish his sentence. She folded her arms, lay her head back on the arm of the sofa and frowned up at the ceiling. How was that man able to get under her skin so much? _Well, besides the obvious fact that he clearly has no scruples with asking crime lords to have me killed_, she thought bitterly. He was impossible to decipher, his words civil, his manner polite. For some reason it had taken courage for her to question him after Zsasz's hearing three days ago – had she felt intimidated? She chuckled once, rolling her head forward once more and gazing around her living room. Admittedly, Rachel found his looks to be slightly daunting. Always one to give credit where it was due, his chiselled face was a thing of a corporeal kind of beauty, high cheekbones, strong jaw... and then there were those _eyes_. She had always considered herself to be not ugly but plain – muddy brown eyes, straight, limp hair, ashy complexion dotted with those godforsaken freckles that no amount of make-up had ever been able to mask entirely. Her one and only boyfriend in college had left her for a bubbly blonde cheerleader after several months, breaking not only her heart but what was left of her self-esteem and confidence in the process. She had grown up in Wayne Manor with Bruce, for heaven's sake – as the practically adopted siblings they had been, comparisons between the two children had always been made in whispers, behind closed doors. Rachel had always been aware that was Bruce was more intelligent, more attractive, more likely to be successful – _and they'd been right_, she thought harshly. She found herself mentally cursing Bruce when, really, she had only herself to blame for her pessimism. _You're being ridiculous_. She was married to her work and knew deep down inside of her that she would not have her life any other way. Her sights were set on the position of district attorney when Carl Finch either stepped down or... met a different end, and, with crime rifer on the streets of Gotham than ever, she hardly had time to maintain anything of a social life with her small circle of girlfriends, let alone a relationship of any kind. So was this the future she was resigned to? Her face suddenly felt hot and she sighed heavily again, her eyes suddenly stinging with foolish tears. A single one rolled down her cheek before she brushed them away.

_I don't want to die alone._

Rachel curled up in a ball on the wide leather sofa, her body tender and aching, her mind emotionally drained, and, before she knew what was happening, her exhaustion overcame her and she drifted into a troubled state of unconsciousness, her head filled with images of straightjacket-clad thugs, men dressed as bats and a certain crystal-eyed doctor.

/

Jonathan stood in one of the many dark hallways of Arkham Asylum and stared through the thick glass window of Cell 4, one of the highest-security wings in the building – the area smelled of smoke and disinfectant and years. It was way after hours, but even at this time of the night, Carmine Falcone's eyes were wide open inside the cell where he lay strapped to a sterile hospital gurney, a horrified expression on his gaunt face, muttering the same word over and over again.

"Scarecrow... scarecrow."

Under his authorisation, Falcone had been moved to high-security several hours ago, and strict instructions had been given to the staff that nobody should enter the cell but Crane himself. The effects of his marvellous fear toxin were already beginning to subside, but would certainly not stop manifesting themselves entirely for at least another twenty-four hours. Until that time came - or until a time came in which he could give Falcone a fatal dose and finish the job completely without being interrupted – no other staff would be given access to the criminal's bedside. He smiled, his eyes widening, taking in the sight that lay before him. Soon, all of Gotham would be feeling the same effects as Falcone; the city would tear itself apart, and no one would be able to stop it. It was already too late.

Unless...

Jonathan rolled his eyes and seethed as he headed back along the empty corridor toward the main foyer, recalling what Falcone had told him minutes before he had been gassed with the toxin earlier that evening.

"_Uh, yeah. Bad news, doc," he had said, scratching his head morosely and leaning his elbow on the table. "That assistant DA. Well, my men came up against the 'Batman'..." He made quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "... and, uh, needless to say, your girl's still alive. But it's nothing you can't handle under your own steam, right?"_

Then he'd unleashed his poison.

At the time, he had tried his hardest to ignore the twinge in his stomach, the niggling sensation at the back of his brain, resist giving in to a smile at this news. _I was right_, he had thought. _It would have been a waste. Perhaps there's hope for her yet_. Tomorrow he was sure that she would find out through one of the weak, spineless doctors that worked beneath him; Rachel would know exactly what he had done, would have her attention drawn to just how corrupt the director of Arkham Asylum had become, if she didn't know it already. And that wild spirit of hers would finally force her to fight back. This time he was sure he had overstepped the metaphorical line she had drawn in her head to comfort herself at night – admitting the leader of one of the world's most notorious crime families to therapy the day before he was due to be sentenced to a life in jail had been a bold move, and one that, if he knew the delightful Miss Dawes at all, she would not take sitting down.

He thought back to that last court case they had attended together, recalling the dusting of freckles across her nose, the way in which she had absently played with a strand of her dark hair during the hearing, the tempting aroma of her perfume he had sensed in the air when she had hurried to catch up with him in the foyer at the courthouse. He laughed once at his misplaced sentimentality. This was no fairytale, no romance novel. It was a game.

It was her move. And he was ready to play.

/

Rachel watched the ever-changing, undulating colours that lit the early morning sky as they danced through the window, casting shapes and patterns onto the charcoal grey carpet, a smile on her face, the source of which she was unable place, her body sore but not in an unpleasant way; every inch of her skin was warm and tingled agreeably. She shifted in the majestic four-poster bed she lay in, unable to regain the wonderful level of comfort she had known seconds ago, and stood, crossing the room to stand by the window and gaze out of it. The panorama she saw was unfamiliar – fields and meadows in varying shades of green and criss-crossing wooden fences lay out before her for as far as her eyes could see – not a single high-rise building, tower block or feature of the cityscape she was accustomed to gave her a hint as to her whereabouts. But it didn't bother her. Normally she would have hated the lack of acquaintance with her location, of understanding, but for some reason she could not summon up the will to care. Rachel smiled again, effortlessly, without thinking at all. She felt no pain, no negativity, no _fear_. Tossing her hair back over her shoulder, she glanced down at her body to see that she wore absolutely nothing. Her skin seemed to be glowing radiantly against the dark of the carpet, and noticing this made her smile even wider. She tended to be shy, bashful, but today she felt no resentment for her body whatsoever. Nothing was wrong - it was perfect, just like everything else.

She closed her eyes and felt the sun's rays dance across her skin, warming her satisfyingly, her ears adjusting to the quiet, peaceful sounds of birds outside the window. Everything was still, _perfect_. Then she heard a voice from somewhere behind her and, without even understanding why, she broke into a blissful grin.

"Rachel," he said, a smile in his voice that was already gravelly with sleep. "It's early. Come back to bed."

She turned her head toward the man that had lain beside her and he grinned charmingly in her direction, his lithe, toned torso bare, his dark curls in an endearing state of disarray, his crystal blue eyes alight with contentment. _Those familiar crystal blue eyes..._ Realisation crashed over Rachel like a tidal wave, permeating every cell in her body, wringing out every drop of the untraceable happiness she had felt mere moments ago and leaving her cold, chilling her to the bone. Her smile faded quickly and she turned back to the window, a sob suddenly threatening to rip its way out of her mouth. What had she done? Why did it have to be him? She now felt tremendously, horribly embarrassed, not only of her wholly bare body but of her unexpected show of emotion. She'd never felt so weak and inferior in her life.

A single tear rolled down her cheek as she felt strong arms move around her, pulling her close to his chest from behind. His breath was warm and gentle against the back of her neck as he planted a tender, lingering kiss there, burying his face in her hair. She sighed and melted into Jonathan Crane's embrace, her pulse racing, her skin hot and silky against his.

"You don't have to be afraid," he murmured in her ear, his elegant fingers caressing her collarbones, her shoulders, trailing down her sides. She leaned back further into his arms, arching her body – he turned her head toward him with his fingertips and lust clouded his eyes. The room grew hotter and hotter and her fingers slipped into his hair, pulling his lips down to hers...

Then Rachel awoke with a start, her clothing dripping with cold sweat, her hair sticking in clumps to her clammy forehead. Her apartment was still dark but the first hints of sunlight were beginning to shine through her window – the clock on her VCR told her it had just gone 4am. She sat up on the sofa she had fallen asleep on and put her head between her knees, trying to return her breathing to its usual speed. Her mind was reeling from her dream. _Why are you fantasizing about the man that attempted to have you murdered? _ Rachel asked herself, shaking her head in true disbelief. She smacked her temple viciously with one hand. _This is exactly what he wants_, she berated herself. He had truly gotten under her skin with his interference and the innocent tone with which he had spoken to the reporter on the television. Why could nobody see how truly culpable the doctor was? An idiot could put two and two together to realise that Crane was assisting Falcone. Or, at least, he had been, until the infamous crime family leader himself had been captured by Gordon's team the previous night. Rachel could already picture Falcone being moved into a high-security ward at Arkham by Crane – when would it happen? _If it hasn't already_, a voice murmured in the back of her mind.

She groaned, shaking off mental images of her and Crane together, still pictures of her dream from moments ago. Her imagination really had been working overtime recently. Moving to her bedroom and collapsing onto the bedspread, her eyelids immediately drooping to a close, she wondered indolently if Crane would finally allow the people of Gotham the pleasure of seeing one of the world's most iniquitous criminals begin a life behind bars, rather than in his asylum. Maybe would draw a line. Maybe he would do the right thing.

She had been wrong.

/

Rachel allowed her gaze to linger over Falcone's fitful body for a moment longer before turning in the direction from which she heard footsteps steadily approaching. And then there he was, sauntering toward her, his pace unhurried, his expression almost bored, his eyes burning with their usual arrogance. She kept her face set, giving nothing away. Brushing away returning mental images from last night's dream, she pushed her shoulders back and drew herself up to her full height.

He stopped about a metre away from her and looked in on Falcone for a second, anxiousness momentarily crossing his face, then he returned his attention to her, his cool mask firmly back in place. Rachel observed this, her eyes narrowed. _Body language, Doctor_, she thought icily. _Learn to control yourself. I've got you all figured out. _This man had tried to have her killed. There was no way in the world that she was going to let _that _one go in a hurry.

"Miss Dawes," he greeted her, his voice slightly softer than it had been the last time they had talked. He raised his eyebrows ingenuously, feigning a look of total surprise. "This is most irregular. I have nothing further to add to the report I filed with the judge."

"I have some questions about your report," she told him icily, her hackles rising.

"Such as?" he asked, his mouth quirked as though concealing a smile. At what? Her audacity? Had nobody ever stood up to him, ever questioned in the past like she was now?

She pursed her lips and glanced through the window at Falcone, then back at Dr. Crane, perfectly willing to rise to his challenge. She made her move accusingly. "Isn't it convenient for a 52-year-old man who has no history of mental illness to have a complete psychotic breakdown just when he's about to be indicted?"

"Well," he muttered, gesturing to the window and staring through it himself. "As you can see for yourself, there is nothing _convenient_..." He superciliously emphasised the 't'. "...about his symptoms."

She rolled her eyes and looked back at Crane, a challenge in her insolent half-smile. She would not lose this battle of wits quite so easily.

/

"What's 'scarecrow'?" asked Rachel softly but with a distinct edge to her words, staring through the glass at Falcone. Jonathan sighed – unfortunately, this was a question he could not deflect quite as easily as any of her previous enquiries. The look on her face suggested that she had perceived his slow exhalation of breath as haughtiness.

"Patients suffering delusional episodes often focus their paranoia on an external tormentor, one usually conforming to Jungian archetypes. In this case..." He paused, searching her face for any sign of comprehension. "... a scarecrow."

He watched as Rachel's eyes narrowed. "He's drugged?" she asked, cocking her head to the side, her temper clearly flaring at the superiority in his tone.

"Psychopharmacology is my primary field," Jonathan stated matter-of-factly, inching slightly closer to her. His eyes bore into hers searchingly, looking for a sign of weakness lurking behind them. When she showed him none, he continued. "I'm a strong advocate. Outside he was a giant – but in here, only the mind can grant you power."

Rachel's brow furrowed, clearly trying to understand his reasoning. "You enjoy the reversal," she said, and it wasn't a question.

"I respect the mind's power over the body. That's why I do what I do."

Without realising it, he had been stepping closer as he spoke. Their faces were now inches apart, and he felt her breath on his skin as they stared each other down, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Her eyes glowed and, for the first time since they had met, Rachel Dawes did not seem to exude her usual level of controlled, guarded confidence. As he watched her face intently, a not-entirely-unpleasant shiver running down his spine, her gaze moved away from his eyes to the line of his nose, his jaw, then down to his mouth. Unconsciously, she inhaled deeply. He smirked.

She gasped audibly, presumably at her own bold behaviour, before turning around and spitting back at him, "I do what I do to keep thugs like Falcone behind bars, not in therapy." Then she gathered herself and went to make her exit. Rachel rattled off her plan to get a second opinion on Falcone as she headed toward the elevator. His eyes widening, he followed her, already planning his next move.

"As you wish," he said obligingly, holding out a hand, gesturing politely that she should go in first. As soon as he joined her, he inserted his key that would grant the elevator access to the asylum's basement. He had hoped not to have to resort to this plan of action, but Miss Dawes was being far too persistent for his liking. _It will truly be a waste, _he thought earnestly. Then he remembered - he never had gotten around to asking what she was afraid of.

"What scares you, Miss Dawes?" he asked without thinking, his eyes wide.

She glared at him, one eyebrow raised. He saw her swallow hard under his curious gaze. "Nothing scares me, Dr. Crane," she responded far too quickly to be considered remotely sincere. "I'm an adult. We're not supposed to be afraid of anything, are we?"

"I'm not too sure about that," he said quietly, smiling.

It was then that Rachel noticed what level they were descending toward and opened her mouth to protest, but there was a 'ping' and the doors opened before she could speak. "This way please," he requested, stepping out onto the subterranean ground. "There's something I think you should see."

/

Rachel eyed Crane's dark curls warily as he led the way down a dingy corridor, at first following slowly, cautiously, then speeding up as he glanced around at her, his pale, sparkling eyes evidently checking whether or not she had turned back. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flee in fear. Instead, she caught his eye and shrugged nonchalantly. Staring around, she noticed that the paint on the walls was faded and scratched and the tiled floor was in a horrendous state of disrepair. She wondered if the rest of the staff at the asylum even knew that the basement was still occupied. But with what, and by whom?

When they reached a pair of wholly condensation-marked double-glass doors at the end of the passageway, Crane stopped suddenly, allowing Rachel to draw level with him. He typed an access code into a keypad and waited for the tumblers to be activated. Their shoulders brushed, and Rachel refused to acknowledge the faint tingle of electricity she felt when they came into contact with one another. She heard him inhale sharply and he looked up at her – what with their positioning and close proximity, she had no choice but to look him in the eye, to stop and feel the thud of her heart in her chest as his curious, shrewd gaze impaled her once more. And as she watched his shifting facial expression, he swallowed, his strong jaw fell slack and, to her immense surprise, he lifted a hand and, so gently that she scarcely felt it at all, ghosted his fingertips slowly, carefully across her cheekbone as though she were a china doll that may break. She opened her mouth to speak, but found herself unable to arrange words in her head to form sentences. Then the door opened and, as though his gentle caress had never taken place, he lowered his hand once more and strode forward.

"This is where we make the medicine," he said by way of explanation as she followed him in and, for a moment, the cavernous room that opened up beneath them rendered her incapable of doing anything but gaping like a fish out of water.

**/**

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	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys :3**

**Well, here I am again – special thanks to TymanTB, ZenyZootSuit, Starcrier, Theodore Hawkwood, Team Damon, Graceful Whovian (aka richity), GW and hero stuff rulez for your kind reviews! In your names have I written this.**

**Here, have chapter three!**

/

_Three:_

Rachel stood beside Crane on a cast iron entresol, surrounded by thick railings, a considerable height above what was going on below them. Fifteen metres or so down was an intricate network of desks, benches and, to her horror, open water pipes. At every long bench sat a number of men and women in surgical masks and white lab coats working over beakers, test tubes and what appeared to be vast Bunsen burners. Pillars of a grey-white substance that looked slightly too thick and physically tangible to be smoke emanated from the flames and seemed to be being collected in the large opaque tanks, acting as extractor fans, that hung from the high ceiling above them. To the right of the yawning subterranean room was a large vat, filled with a thick white liquid. Her breath was coming more and more quickly. Rachel had heard of places like this before. _Well, he did say that psychopharmacology was his primary field..._ She watched the workers below, aghast, and her eyes fell upon a tall man pouring a bucket of the white liquid into one of the open pipes. That couldn't be heading to Gotham's communal water grid, could it? _Oh my God._

"Maybe you should have some," said Crane, his voice almost bored, looking around at Rachel. She tried to speak, to voice her concerns, to protest somehow, but her throat constricted tightly and words failed her. "Clear your head," he finished, a hint of a smile playing around his lips. But Rachel missed the very end of his sentence. She ran. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her.

The elevator was still firmly in place when she reached it. Rachel flung herself inside and pressed the button that would transport her to the ground floor, but the doors did not close and the metal box remained stationary in its cold shaft. She hit the button and every other around it repeatedly, frantically in her desperation, but the usual drone of the elevator was not present – it was as if the entire system had been shut down. Like a trapped animal, Rachel shivered in fear as she backed into a corner of her cage and attempted to slow her ragged breathing. But then she heard quick, lithe footsteps, saw a shadow approaching against the wall of the hallway outside... and in stepped Crane, a sinister-looking mask that seemed to be made from poorly-stitched burlap sacking cloaking the outline of his head. All she saw was his eyes, piercing and clearer than ever against the neutral tone of the mask.

She opened her mouth as felt a shriek rising in her chest, but then Crane held out a hand and a thick white burst of fog obscured Rachel's vision. Her nose stung and the gas burnt the back of her throat, but still she remained on her feet, her eyes seeking out Crane through the sea of white that swirled before her. She breathed in once. No problems, nothing changed. Then she breathed in for a second time... and her entire world shifted into a spiralling chasm of undulating horror and darkness.

If she had been physically able to open her mouth, she would have screamed. But her throat seemed to be paralysed, her body compressing any form of sound and transforming it into an agonisingly powerful electrical current that coursed across her skin, down her spine, tightened around her neck and pulled on every fibre of hair. She sank to the ground and her head shot up – the elevator walls were closing in more and more around her with every passing second – and her eyes found Crane. She inhaled sharply and excruciatingly deeply at what she saw. The burlap mask he had donned earlier was suddenly torn, bleeding and gruesome in her mind, crawling with rotting maggots and twisted in a malicious grin. Even his eyes were now sunken and haunting. Rachel closed her eyes and curled into a ball, her hands over her ears, trying to block out the images that now seemed to be etched into her mind. But still, she heard Crane speak – presumably to his men – and his cruel voice echoed around the room, resonated inside her head. She moaned as hands moved around her and she felt her body being lifted, carried dizzyingly along a stretch of hallway before placed down on a freezing slab. And, despite the fact that all the while she kept her eyes closed, the hallucinations kept coming thick and fast... some considerably stranger than others. And it _hurt_.

/

Jonathan's eyebrows pulled together beneath his Scarecrow mask as his quick, analytical mind took in and processed the unusually pale colour of the gas that sprung from the canister at his wrist, the abnormal lack of odour, the way in which the vapour cloud hung static, frozen in the air for several moments before it began to spread and fade. The next thing he noticed was the fact that Rachel was silent. She didn't scream, shriek or cry, merely fell to the floor and lay quite still, spasms of fear and internal pain rippling through her body every few seconds. He swallowed. _Something's wrong._

"Bring her back through," he told one of his men detachedly when he heard their footsteps behind him, his eyes never leaving the quivering woman that lay on the floor of the elevator. The pain in his victims' eyes, the anguish, the mind-consuming _fear_... he usually smirked at the sight of them writhing under the control of his toxin, his precious chemical weapon that had taken years of experimenting and trial and error to create, to refine to perfection. But now, he took no pleasure from watching the meddlesome assistant DA twitch and thrash in his hired men's arms as they carried her back toward his subterranean laboratory. He followed behind them, taking advantage of the harsh fluorescent lighting in the corridor to examine the canister that had contained the toxin he'd unleashed upon Rachel several minutes ago. His eyes scanned the text printed on the metal by his manufacturing team, his brain digested the figures... and his blood ran cold.

_So much for precision, Doctor._

The bizarre behaviour and formation of the gas cloud, Rachel's silence, her vague, deserted expression; it suddenly all made sense. The dose he had given her was of a higher concentration than he'd intended. His researchers had created six canisters of an unstable, one-molar, ninety-percent-strength version of his toxin for further experimentation as well as mass-producing the original forty-five-percent solution. No one was ever meant to feel the effects of that particular formula but, as he arrived in the laboratory and his men threw Rachel down onto a concrete bench, a pang in his gut told him that it was already too late. He turned and counted the canisters that remained in the airtight Perspex case. _Five left_. He exhaled slowly. _This was never meant to happen. _The human brain was a fragile thing – one that Jonathan had devoted his life to exploring and studying – and Rachel's, one of the most passionate and insightful he had come across, was about to be lost forever, and he would have no one but himself to blame.

"Who knows you're here?" he asked her, his voice intentionally harsh so as not to arouse the suspicion of his men. Showing sympathy for a hostage was a sign of weakness that he refused to show in a hurry. She merely gasped, her eyes rolling back in her head, her toes curling. One of the men sneered. "Who knows?" he shouted, and Rachel's head lolled back on her shoulders. The colour was disappearing from her cheeks, ebbing away to a pallid white, and the pained shivers were coming less and less quickly now – she was fading fast, and the only samples of the antidote he had prepared in case of an emergency were in a secure sterile box at the back of the dresser in his apartment a mile away. _It's possible, _a voice told him, the voice of the doctor he had worked all his life to become, the voice of a man who had made a Hippocratic Oath and sworn to protect and preserve human life wherever he was able to. _She isn't gone yet. She can still be saved._

Then suddenly the lights in the basement cut out entirely. Rapid, running footsteps sounded somewhere above them then disappeared, and an eerie chill settled across the room. The only audible sound was Rachel's pained, ragged breathing.

"He's here," Jonathan muttered, pulling away his mask and gazing up to the rafters above where he and his men stood. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly, his strategic mind attempting to formulate a solution.

"Who?" asked one of the men, in particular, the one that had laughed at Rachel's reaction to the deadly toxin. Jonathan glared across at the man, his eyes narrowing heatedly.

"The Batman..." he clarified, his quiet voice dripping with condescension. He smiled, praying he appeared, to his men, to be at ease with the situation. Their own fear was evident in their anxious eyes.

"What do we do?" demanded the same man again, his voice shaking, pulling a semi-automatic out of a holster on his belt.

"What anyone does when a prowler comes around." The thug raised his eyebrows, not understanding. "Call the police," Jonathan snapped, rolling his eyes.

"You want the cops here?" another man asked, gesturing around at the compromising (to say the least) selection of equipment.

"At this point they can't stop us," he assured them hotly. "But the Batman..." He called the name out to the heavens, his voice laced with acid. "... has a talent for _disruption_." It was the masked man that had cut short the attempt by Falcone's lackeys on Rachel's life at the monorail station several days back. Jonathan ignored the voice in his head that told him he should not exactly be taunting him, despite their rather inconvenient encounter in the downtown Narrows the previous night. "Force him outside, the police will take him down." He shrugged when the thugs around him remained stock-still. "Go!"

"What about her?" asked the first man, jabbing a finger of his free hand toward Rachel. She moaned, a low, almost contented sound, and her spine arched against the slab. Jonathan frowned, wondering vaguely once more what Rachel Dawes was genuinely afraid of. What could she be picturing right now, under the influence of his toxin, which was able force such contextually bizarre sounds to pass her lips? He had known instantly that she was lying about fearing nothing. But what demons was his highly-concentrated chemical weapon causing to surface in her mind? What was she fighting?

"She hasn't got long," Jonathan informed him, struggling to keep the sting of regret he felt out of his voice. "I gave her a concentrated dose; the mind can only take so much." The man nodded and the others around him followed suit before pulling out their weapons and moving away from the slab in all directions. They looked briefly back at him for reassurance. "Now go," he said patronisingly, as though he was addressing a group of small, incompetent children, and the men flew up the stairs and out of sight.

As soon as they were gone, Jonathan wheeled around, stuffing the burlap mask he held into his pocket. He had noticed Rachel's breathing getting shallower and shallower as the minutes passed and, as he perched on the slab beside her writhing body, he saw that her slight frame was racked with violent shivers. Without thinking, he shrugged out of his charcoal grey suit jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, gently pulling her arms through the sleeves as though she were an only-too-breakable china doll. As his fingertips brushed against her bare skin, he felt the depths to which her temperature had plummeted. Her forehead was clammy with cold sweat as he pushed unruly strands of her dark, soft hair back out of her face. She sighed, deeply, painfully, and her wide, unfocused eyes searched his confusedly, her expression that of a person faced with a particularly difficult riddle. She sought out answers, but seemed to find none.

He acted instinctively. "You're going to be okay," he said softly, his own voice shaking. "Everything's fine," he murmured into Rachel's ear as he scooped her up into his arms with ease. "You're going to be okay... you're going to be okay."

He carried her toward a concealed door that would take them straight into one of the many underground walkways the Narrows were home to – the busy main road outside Arkham was impossible to cross on foot at street level – and, as they passed through, Rachel moaned quietly, her breath momentarily catching in her throat, and he felt her limply hanging arms move up and around his neck, her fingers lacing together at his shoulder. He almost laughed. What had he gotten himself into with this girl?

"You're going to be okay, Rachel," he repeated as he increased his pace. The subterranean walkway was deserted. "Nearly there now."

/

It felt as though shards of ice were piercing through Rachel's skin, through every layer of her body's defences, penetrating her every bone and freezing the blood in her veins. At first she was convinced that she blacked out from the pain – while it was not physical, whatever Crane had done to her in that elevator had twisted her mind and seemed to be bending it to breaking point. She saw flashes of images, expanding and becoming clearer before zooming away again into a dark abyss she could not see, name or place, and the colours of the real world around her were distorted and warped so much that it hurt to try and right them in her mind. She closed her eyes, but somehow this only worsened her sense of mental claustrophobia. The walls were closing in, the ceiling becoming lower and lower, collapsing around her, the air was thick and suffocating...

Rachel was vaguely aware of quiet conversation and then sudden darkness, but her vision was so overcome with frightening images that she could not make out what was going on in her immediate environment. A sharp prickling sensation shot along the length of her back and her spine arched – her eyes shot open and suddenly her mental images were projected onto the setting around her. The balustrades along the entresol onto which she and Dr. Crane had first walked writhed under her gaze and twisted into thick serpents, their eyes glowing, their bodies slicing across the floor toward her. She attempted a scream but again all that came out of her mouth was a sharp gasp of air. She wrenched her eyes closed once more and for a moment her world was peaceful. Was it over? Then a chink of light appeared in the darkness that was her vision, like a door opening, and she stepped across a threshold into what seemed to be a freezing, stony courtyard. An ornately carved wooden box lay on a marble platform a little way in front of her and, to her horror, even from this odd angle and distance, it was clear what rested inside it.

The sight of her own pallid, emaciated corpse in the casket sent shockwaves throughout her body – she thrashed on the slab, the image burning in her mind. In her mind's eye, she took in the sunken, waxy face, the flat, colourless hair, the way in which her bones jutted out oddly beneath her ashen skin. She stepped closer but somehow found herself even further away than she had been when she started. Then suddenly, as she watched, the dead body's mouth fell open and blood began pouring out, staining the pure, angelic white skirts of the dress she wore, soaking the elaborately designed bodice, tainting the sheer lace of the veil that hung in waves over her hair. The image of a youthful blushing bride, tainted by grotesque waves of blood.

_She never married,_ said a voice in Rachel's head, loud and keening, that sounded horribly like her mother's. _Too highly strung, if you ask me_, the voice sniffed disdainfully. Rachel gasped – she had not heard that voice in over six years – and rolled onto her side, her head throbbing from the kaleidoscope of colours and images that spun around in her mind. But then she heard another voice, one that she'd become familiar with much more recently.

"You're going to be okay," it said gently.

She knew exactly who _that _voice belonged to.

"J..." she moaned, completely incapable of finishing his name. Then he lifted her up, and a fire began beneath the surface of her skin. When they came into contact with one another, the gruesome images in Rachel's mind faded into blissful darkness and the cold she had felt previously melted into glorious heat.

Her heart raced as she thought back to the moment they had shared outside the basement room earlier – it felt like hours, _days _ago now – she recalled the sensation of his fingertips against her skin, the steady thud of their heartbeats in perfect time... and suddenly, all she could do was desire _more_. She nestled into his arms, twisting her own up around his neck and holding on like he was all she had in the world, his strong hands burning her skin at the points where he held her. She breathed in, leaning further into him and inhaling, his cigarettes and spearmint scent acting as a heady intoxicant.

Hazily aware that they were moving up some stairs, Rachel's head swam once more and she forced her eyes open – there were buildings on either side of them, gloomy, ramshackle buildings, and the night sky above seemed ominous and incessant. She moaned again, this time involuntarily, and her head lolled backward until it rested against the crook of Jonathan's arm. From this angle she saw his face completely, noticing little, insignificant things she had never taken the time to appreciate before; for example, his long, dark eyelashes, the way his extraordinary eyes contained flecks of both green and hazel as well as their preponderant crystal blue, the jagged, puckered scar that ran from his earlobe to just below his chiselled jaw. She felt a misguided smile tug at the corners of her mouth and her head shot up, her mind reeling suddenly.

_Stop thinking about him like that_, shrieked a resonating voice in Rachel's head. _He's a wanted man! A criminal! He's everything your office exists to fight against!_

She shuddered again, even more violently than earlier, a movement that made every muscle in her body twitch and vibrate painfully, and she went limp in his arms, her eyes closed, refusing to look at him. His grip around her tightened securely, and then they were moving up yet another flight of stairs, then what felt like another, and another. The door of an apartment banged open in front of them and Jonathan carried her inside, over the threshold, in the vein of a pair of newlyweds entering their marital home for the first time. Rachel gasped, her ghastly mental images from before flooding back into her mind, and somewhere within her, she felt an emotional dam break. The darkness of the apartment closed in around them, crushing her, choking her, and she let the tears come. She felt hot, too hot, but then...

Suddenly the heat was gone. Jonathan's arms released her and she lay on a bed, groaning as she felt her heart rate pick up again and the mind-numbing cold begin to return. His scent lingered in the room even when he left it and Rachel found herself crying out for the first time that evening, her fingers gripping and clawing at the bed sheets in despair, searching frantically. And when she was finally able to string letters together to form words, she was shocked at the first one that escaped her mouth.

"Jonathan..." she cried, a tear rolling down her cheek. She thrashed on the bed, trying to force feeling to return to her limbs that felt icy and anaesthetized, but nothing worked. The room around her began to fade, the corners and edges softening, the colours dying away... then she felt a needle in her arm, a rush of warmth... and her mind finally began to clear.

She turned over and watched Jonathan toss the syringe down onto the floor, his eyes soft, his expression gentler than she had ever seen it. He exhaled deeply, reaching out a hand to, apparently, check the temperature of her forehead. His touch was warm and pleasant, and she felt herself smile as he caressed her skin.

"Lie down," he said quietly, pulling the covers up over her body. Her shoes were already off. "You need to rest." His voice was pensive, his expression tight.

After one more wistful glance, he turned to leave the room, but Rachel found herself sitting bolt upright once more, a trembling arm outstretched toward the doorway.

"Don't... don't go," she murmured, her voice weak, her mind fighting to pull her down into oblivion. "I... please," she whispered, collapsing back down onto the bed. Her entire body ached and yet again she felt cold, but it was a different cold to that which she had been exposed to earlier. Her breath hitched uneasily in her throat, but still she smiled as Jonathan kicked off his shoes and sat down beside her, his cheeks flushed, his hair dishevelled and scruffy. Without thinking she wriggled forward on the double mattress and leaned upward on her elbow, surprising even herself when she pushed her hand gingerly through his dark curls, cataloguing the length, texture and softness with as much accuracy as she could in her feeble, inebriated state. And he let her, closing his eyes as Rachel touched him, his breathing slow, his heartbeat audible in the silent room and almost as quick as her own. When she relaxed onto the bed once more, he gently trailed his fingertips across her cheek, slowly, cautiously, a soothing gesture that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and sent a shock of electricity down her spine. She breathed slowly, and once more she felt goose bumps spring up on her arms.

"Jonathan... I'm cold," she mumbled feebly, slumping down against the pillows, her body truly weak.

"It's the drugs. They'll wear off soon enough, don't worry," he told her, kissing her forehead gently, reassuringly.

And, in that moment, whether she was in some kind of intoxicated, substance-induced stupor or not, Rachel Dawes had never felt safer, more cherished, more thoroughly_ complete._

"Hold me," she asked simply, her voice no more than a hoarse whisper, her eyes dropping closed. Then she felt strong arms move around her once more, heard the sound of his breathing as it slowed to match hers, and relaxed into a state of exhausted, anesthetised unconsciousness.

/

**Phew! What did you think? Let me know! Remember, reviews and constructive criticism are the best motivation for any kind of writer!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Onwards and upwards, chapter four:**

/

_Four:_

Jonathan didn't get a wink of sleep until at least the early hours of the morning. His mind was racing, reeling from the evening's events, and a snagging, grating voice somewhere within it continued to berate him relentlessly for his carelessness at the asylum. At first it was for selecting the wrong canister of his toxin, for senselessly endangering the life of the sleeping girl beside him with his negligence, but then another question had begun to hurtle around his brain like a hornet, stinging him again and again when he was unable to supply an answer or even a simple explanation – why had he saved Rachel's life? What precisely was it about the vivacious assistant DA that had driven him to abandon his men, risking his own safety and the operation he had devoted his life to for months? He had no idea. For the first time in as long as he cared to remember, his logical, strategic mind could offer no rational response to the circumstances he was facing. He simply had not been able to allow her to die. Of course, there was no denying that his intention was to frighten her, to observe her reaction to the chemical weapon of his own creation, to watch the fearless, imperturbable Rachel Dawes come undone and spiral out of control before him. Killing her, however, had never been his objective. He was no murderer.

Was it the deeply-rooted and long-buried sense of morality he had gained on his way through medical school that had compelled him to carry Rachel through the Narrows and back to his own home where he could administer the elusive antidote to his toxin and ultimately save her life? _Or... _murmured a voice somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice he had been working hard to silence ever since their first meeting in the courtroom several days ago. _Could it be something more than that? _He yawned and rolled over onto his side, turning his head so that he faced Rachel, and for a moment, he had to suppress a chuckle at their current situation. If somebody had told him after that first sentencing hearing that, in a week and a half, he would be curled up in bed with the assistant district attorney that had been causing him nothing but grief since her involvement in the Falcone case began, there was no way in the world that he would have believed them. But now, as he studied her troubled face, her rigid position, her seemingly fitful state of sleep, he wanted nothing more than to take her pain away, whatever the cost.

Her eyes suddenly flickered open and she gasped, her fingers clutching at the bed sheets. The disturbed, fearful look about her quickly provided evidence to support what Jonathan had been expecting – the highly-concentrated dose of the toxin was still in her system and had not been given adequate time for its effects to subside entirely yet.

"Where... what..." she choked out between ragged breaths, her eyes searching out his, demanding something he was not sure how to identify. "Don't leave me!" she cried, a sob escaping her.

"Shh," he soothed her, checking the temperature of her forehead and pushing her dark hair back out of her eyes. Was that a fever he felt? "Rachel, you're burning up," he told her gently, sitting up in the bed and placing a hand carefully on the back of her neck. "Come here."

She melted into his touch and acquiesced without argument, rising into a sitting position and allowing him to remove the suit jacket that he had placed around her shoulders several hours before.

"Better?" he asked, smiling a little as Rachel sighed contentedly. She nodded, her eyes hazy and unfocused, before lying back down and settling with her legs and feet on top of the bedspread rather than underneath.

"Much better," he heard her murmur as he lay back beside her, immediately turning onto his side and meeting her eye."Don't go," she said, her voice a soft whisper, and she pulled herself closer to him, her hands reaching out as though checking he really was still there.

"I won't," he promised, raising an eyebrow, confused by Rachel's obsessive, fervid behaviour. What had brought on this desperation to remain by his side? He felt her hand come to rest at his waist and unconsciously his arms tightened around her slight frame, wondering once more what internal demons his toxin really had forced Rachel to face. Her evident apprehension at the thought of being left unaccompanied, her desire for proximity, her elevated pulse... all of Rachel's symptoms pointed toward some kind of psychological issue. He had seen this need for human contact in several patients at Arkham. Post-traumatic stress disorder, perhaps? _Not possible_, he thought, waving aside that idea. It was far too soon for a long-term condition such as that to develop. What, then, could it be?

Almost as though she had read his thoughts, Rachel tilted her head toward him and said, softly and simply, "I don't want to be alone."

He bit back a smile. _Checkmate._

/

Rachel slowly opened her eyes, rolled onto her front and wound her arms around the pillow beneath her, her head throbbing, her body tender and aching as though it was in the process of fighting off a terrible bout of flu. She groaned, burying her face in the cotton, closing her eyes once more as she inhaled the scent that lingered there. Then her mouth dropped open.

She flipped back over and sat bolt upright, her arms bare and rigid at her sides. She was quite alone – although she was not entirely sure of how long this had been the case – in a wide, spacious bedroom. The carpet and wallpaper were generic shades of cream and off-white and the bedclothes matched. The polished desk and wardrobe that were positioned against the wall opposite her were impeccably tidy and uncluttered, and the multiple-layered book shelf was ordered immaculately. Without thinking at all, she stood, crossed the room and began examining the collection of volumes that seemed to be stacked against one another alphabetically by author. She ran her fingers along the spines, smiling a little as she spotted some of her favourites – Chaucer, Orwell, Poe, Twain. This last one particularly caught her eye and she couldn't resist pulling down the book, a maroon leather-bound volume that smelled not unpleasantly like dust and years as she gently flicked through the pages. Her fingers stilled as she reached a page with a corner folded over and her eyes fell upon a quotation written in bold, elegant calligraphy:

'**Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.'**

Then someone cleared their throat quietly behind her and she gasped, the heavy book falling to the floor. She wheeled around and her heart swelled as she saw who stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe with his dark curls dishevelled, his shirt half unbuttoned and a distinct trace of amusement playing around his vivid blue eyes.

"Good morning," he said mildly, stifling a yawn.

"Crane," she murmured, her eyes darting over his face, her posture suddenly wary as if preparing to make a decision – _fight or flight_? "Where are we?" she asked meekly, glancing around the room again, examining possible escape routes. He straightened up and took a step toward her and she unconsciously recoiled, feeling her back come into contact with the wall behind her. She sucked in a sharp breath, her heart racing in her chest. Images flashed through her mind of his face as it had been last night – panicked, apprehensive – yet still she struggled to recall anything substantial that had taken place. She had gone to Arkham and witnessed the psychological state of Falcone, followed Dr. Crane to the elevator...

"Rachel," he said slowly, his eyes wide. He held up his hands. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Then her jaw fell slack as memories of the previous night washed over her, flooded her system and crashed over her head, pulling her under and knocking the wind out of her. Her ankles gave way and she sank to the floor, piercing waves of pain and mindless fear prickling across her skin once more, and in her mind's eye she saw herself, dead, gruesome and bloodied, before the image was replaced by a far gentler but somehow even more unwelcome one – she lay in Crane's arms and a shiver of electricity rippled down her spine as he brushed back loose strands of her hair with his fingertips, those crystal blue eyes inches from hers, examining them with an expression of such awe that she felt like some kind of revered lost treasure, a secret meant only for him... Her body convulsed and she stared at the carpet, her breathing slow and deliberate.

Before she knew what was happening Crane's hands went to her shoulders and supported her, helping her to her feet and moving her so that she was able to sit on the edge of the bed. She closed her eyes and heard him leave the room before returning several moments later, one hand balled into a fist, the other holding a glass of water.

"Aspirin," he clarified, a smile in his voice, kneeling on the floor in front of the bed and dropping the little white pills into her trembling palm. "For the headache."

Rachel glared at them, her eyebrows raised, suddenly wary.

"Seriously, Rachel," he said as he gazed at her, his eyes wide, a small frown in place. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. There were dark circles beneath those pale eyes. "I'm trying to help. I promise I'm not going to hurt you. I think I've done enough of that for a while."

She exhaled slowly, rolling the pills around in her fingers and keeping her eyes locked on his, unable to look away. "What happened last night?" she whispered almost inaudibly, her heart pounding. "I remember pain... and I had the strangest dreams..." she mused aloud, trailing off.

"I'll be happy to explain," Crane promised, his voice pensive. "But I'd rather you took the aspirin first. You'll feel better and I need you at least somewhat coherent, otherwise there's absolutely no chance that you'll understand." His voice was laced with a sadness Rachel had never heard there before. He swallowed. What was wrong with him today? His usual imperturbable arrogance seemed to have been replaced with something much darker and deeper. For once he had shown no sign of superiority in her company and his signature smirk was hidden away somewhere below the surface. His uncharacteristically subdued behaviour only begged more questions in her mind, so she sighed and acquiesced to his request.

"Thank you," she said quietly, placing both pills in her mouth and swallowing them down with a gulp of water.

He nodded. For a moment they just stared at each other, then he rose to his feet and left the room once more, closing the door gently behind him. Rachel watched as he left, shaking her head slowly, bewilderedly, her gaze drifting over his back, and she accidentally caught his eye when he turned to shut the door. There was a curious – no, more than that, a _fascinated _– gleam there that she had never noticed before. He paused in the doorway and chuckled once before he left. She frowned, massaging her temple with her fingertips. _That man_, she thought, feeling her heart flutter absurdly against her ribcage. Why could he never give a straight answer when she asked for one? Rachel lay back on the bed, her hands clasping around the bed sheets. She turned her nose into the cotton, inhaling the all-too-familiar scent of cigarettes and aftershave that remained. _That impossible man_.

/

Jonathan stepped out onto his balcony and leaned his elbows on the railings, lighting a cigarette as his eyes scanned the dirty buildings and flat rooftops that made up the Narrows. He had lived in one of the more up-market – if any of them really could have been called that – high rise apartment blocks in the suburb ever since he had gotten his first job at Arkham almost nine years ago. After flying through medical school, passing his final examinations with some of the highest grades Gotham City University had ever seen and going on to earn his masters degree and specialise in the field of psychopharmacology, Jonathan had been offered a paid internship with Dr. Jeremiah Arkham himself and, eager to escape the dysfunctional, imperfect family life he had hated for so long, at the age of twenty-four, he had found his own apartment within spitting distance of his new job and begun to devote his life to doing what he loved. Eighteen months later, having been working his way up through the ranks with his remarkable intelligence, his ability to make executive decisions successfully and no doubt his irresistible charm, he had been given his own sleek, urbane office space complete with separate working quarters, a pretty but insipid young receptionist and a shiny gold plaque on his door that read:

**Jonathan Crane, PhD  
Doctor of Psychiatry and Psychopharmacology  
Assistant Director of the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane**

He could remember how thrilled he had been. For the first time in his career he felt respected among his colleagues and as though he truly deserved his position, not to mention the proximity he was granted with some of the asylum's most high-profile cases and his salary that was already more than double what a man of his age earned on average. He had his own patients, his own client network and, a year later, when Dr. Jeremiah Arkham mysteriously left the asylum due to 'unforeseen personal circumstances' and passed the role of director on to Jonathan, his own subterranean, entirely secret laboratory in which he was free to experiment as he pleased. The evening before Jeremiah's departure, he had pulled Jonathan aside when visiting hours ended.

"You've come so far in such a short space of time, Jonathan," he had told him as they locked up the asylum for the night and left it in the hands of the security staff. "You're still so young." He had sighed heavily when his voice hitched at the end of his sentence.

"Sir?" Jonathan had asked, his curiosity piqued.

Jeremiah had chuckled darkly, placing a hand on Jonathan's shoulder in a fatherly gesture. "One day this isn't going to be enough for you, you know," he said, gesturing to the old brick building that was slowly disappearing into the darkness. "Taking calls, seeing patients every day. One day you're going to want more."

And he had been right.

Jonathan took a long drag off his cigarette, inhaling so deeply that the swirling smoke burned his lungs and momentarily distracted him from the memories that for some reason it stung to recall in detail. As he exhaled, he heard the sound of bare feet padding across the tiles and he turned sharply to see Rachel pause in the doorway to the balcony, her arms crossed, her face determined as it had been in the courtroom every time they had locked horns over the witness box. He had grown used to this expression by now – it searched for answers, for hidden truths, but today it was gentler, less scorching than he had seen it before. He was sure she would not be perverse or unreasonable this morning, just as he knew she would not drop the subject until he gave her the answers her unwavering gaze seemed to demand. As he stared at her, she pulled a hand through her bed-mussed hair, her eyes softened slightly and, for a moment, he was unable to speak for fear of showing signs of weakness in front of her. He had seen her susceptible, defenceless, _terrified_, in the clutches of her deepest internal, unspoken fears, but now, as he took in the ashen colour of her cheeks, the vulnerability in her expression and her posture, the ghosts of tears in her eyes... he wanted nothing more than to hold her close as he had the previous night, to stroke her hair, to tell her everything was going to be okay. So instead, he remained silent.

It was Rachel who spoke first a minute or so later. "I should hate you for what you did to me last night," she said nonchalantly, with the unnaturally casual air of someone enquiring as to the weather.

He swallowed. "So you remember," he confirmed, pulling in a lungful of smoke, his eyes on the balcony opposite, ignoring the aberrant twinge of guilt he felt in his stomach. Why was it that this girl was so able to mess with his head? He turned to face her as she joined him in leaning on the railings, keeping a firm distance between them.

She nodded slowly, not meeting his eye. "I understand now," she said quietly, rubbing her eyes with her hand, drawing his attention to the dark circles beneath them. "Scarecrow, scarecrow..." she muttered. It took him a moment to realise she was imitating Falcone's insane ramblings as he lay strapped to his gurney at the asylum the day before.

"I don't see how that's relevant..." he tried half-heartedly, knowing Rachel was too quick to fall for his bait.

"You know exactly how it's relevant," she whispered in retort, anger seeping into her voice.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked her, tossing his cigarette over the railing, his voice colder than he had intended. When he looked up, Rachel was suddenly a lot closer to him than she had been moments before. Her eyes bore into his and he was unable to look away, let alone move back. He didn't even know if he wanted to.

"I want you to tell me why you didn't just let me die," she murmured, her face inches from his. He felt her breath against his lips and inhaled instinctively. "If you hate me so much, if you were so desperate to drug me halfway out of my mind..." She broke off, her breath catching in her throat. She swallowed. "I want you to tell me why you didn't just leave me to die in that basement."

"I can't," he told her honestly, suddenly unable to make his voice any louder than a whisper.

"Why not?" Her question was barely audible.

"Because I don't know why," he said, shrugging. As Rachel leaned forward, her hair flopped down into her face – without thinking, Jonathan lifted his hand and brushed back the loose strands with his fingertips. She gasped quietly but did not pull back. And in that moment, the world seemed to stop moving, the sounds of birds and traffic and life down below the balcony faded away, colours turned to hazy greyscale until all that remained in stunning high definition was the pair of them. His breathing slowed until it matched hers.

Everything happened very fast.

A cacophony of voices and thunderous footsteps suddenly rose up and a door was kicked down somewhere behind them. Suddenly aware of police cars and the wail of sirens nearby, _too nearby_, Jonathan turned, panic welling up within him, and before he even knew what had happened his hand found Rachel's. She didn't resist. They ran back into the apartment and Rachel screamed as an armed police officer in full bulletproof gear shot twice above their heads, out of the open balcony doors.

"Don't move!" shouted the same officer as several of his colleagues raced around Jonathan and Rachel, pulling him away from her, forcing his hands behind his back and clicking metal cuffs into place around his wrists.

"Don't-" Rachel began, but a different officer fired another warning shot, stopping her dead in her tracks.

"We've got you now, Scarecrow," murmured the police officer, a tall, balding man with a crooked nose, before punching Jonathan, vulnerable and unguarded, in the stomach. He doubled over, groaning in pain as the team of police officers forced him to the ground and dragged him from the apartment.

"Rachel," he breathed, digging his heels into the carpeted floor of the hallway, his ribs screaming out in agony. "You can't-"

"Shut the fuck up, Crane," spat one of the police officers that held his arm. The officer raised his hand – Jonathan closed his eyes, anticipating the blow – and struck him hard with his fist. He saw black spots, bright distorted images, Rachel's face twisted in terror, a single tear rolling down her cheek... then the inside of a police van, and nothing but darkness.

/

**Any thoughts? Review me please guys! You know how much of a review whore I am. I love to know what you think of my writing!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you all once again for your kind reviews! I really can't tell you how much they mean to me. But please keep them coming! I love hearing from you all! I wasn't going to upload this chapter quite yet, but hey, you wore me down.**

**I watched Batman Begins while I wrote this chapter. Cillian Murphy's face though. I'd be lying if I said he wasn't the main reason I decided to start writing this story! He's too beautiful to be real, it really isn't fair.**

**Anyway, she says with a sigh, here's chapter five :D**

/

_Five:_

A week had passed since the police raided Crane's apartment, and Rachel was sat in a plush chair in the lobby of downtown Gotham's Major Crimes Unit with her jacket around her shoulders and a polystyrene cup of coffee in her hands, watching the hordes of police officers and civilians as they meandered among each other, talking in hushed voices, shooting her evasive glances every so often. She rubbed her temple gently and looked up at the glass ceiling, her head hurting, the harsh light in the vast room too bright for her tired eyes. The clock on the wall told her she had been waiting for her interview for forty-five minutes now. She sighed, sipping her coffee – it was insubstantial and overly-sweet, a metaphor she realised could easily be used to describe the feeble police officers that had been 'helping' her to recover from her ordeal over the last few days. Rachel had been staying at her old family home in the Kubrick District since the incident and had only moved back into her own apartment that morning, after assuring her mother with a warm smile that she wasn't unbearably traumatised as she believed her to be, that she missed her own home and that she was completely fine. But this had been a lie.

In truth, behind closed doors, Rachel was silently falling apart – her head was a mess, her nerves were shot to pieces and there was a resilient ache in her heart that she could not attribute to any kind of rational cause. The previous night, when she had laid down beneath the sheets in her childhood bedroom, she had closed her eyes and attempted to connect the dots in her head, to find some logical reason behind her twisted thinking, some sort of method to her temporary madness, but still she had woken hours later with a throbbing migraine that even the Tylenol from her medicine cabinet had been unable to fix and no comprehensible answers in her head.

Despite her mystification in terms of motives, there were several facts she could be certain of, giving her at least something to hold tightly onto: Jonathan Crane had taken her into the basement of Arkham Asylum to drug her. Whatever he had unleashed inside that elevator had forced staggeringly, horrifyingly realistic hallucinations to surface in her mind's eye, rendering her incapable of basic movement, let alone rational thought. And as much as it made her seethe to admit it, the drug had also worked its way into the deepest, most secret recesses of her brain, the dark crevices she preferred to ignore the existence of, and brought to light the absurd, juvenile and highly illogical attraction she had felt toward Crane for longer than she liked to consider. He was vile, conceited and arrogant, not to mention corrupt; he represented everything Rachel and her office fought against in Gotham's crooked, cash-distorted legal system. It was because of people like him that she had chosen to study law at university, to put them in their place, to show them that good people still existed and would not stand for such levels of injustice and immorality. But she could not deny it, nor could she even attempt to rationalise or categorise the way she felt – ever since their eyes had first met across that stuffy courtroom, the mesmerizing psychiatrist had never once left her mind.

Something had driven him to save her life that night. She knew it was true – memories of him muttering in her ear that she was going to be alright and that he would not let death take her had been working their way back to her all week, and she had found the syringe that had contained the antidote on the bedroom floor the morning after the incident itself. He had not been able to let her die, whatever was left of his morality and sense of what was ethical having forced him to pull her back from the brink, from the excruciating darkness. He had known she was not beyond saving and had risked his own safety to intervene. _But why? _The question had troubled her, haunted her every step for the past seven days. She knew she would have to push her unsound, misguided feelings for him aside and she would eventually come to terms with that, but before she vowed to cut all ties with him, to commence her plan of avoidance and never come into contact with him again – it was for the good of her professionalism as well as her mental wellbeing – she would seek him out one last time. She needed to know why he had saved her, and would not rest until he had given her the answers she so desperately craved. She could not go on without knowing his reasoning. She had to understand.

"Rachel Dawes?"

She looked up to see a silver-haired man standing before her with an affable smile on his face and a Gotham Police Department badge in his hand. He seemed to be in his late forties and wore a dark grey suit that was slightly frayed around the cuffs and lapels. As he reached a hand out toward her, Rachel caught a whiff of peppermint and strong coffee – in more ways than one, the kind-faced man reminded her of her father in his younger, more carefree days.

"Yes," she confirmed, her voice weak. She smiled as convincingly as she was able.

"Detective Inspector Carmichael," he greeted her, shaking her hand firmly. "I've been put in charge of investigating the Jonathan Crane case," he told her, and she felt goose bumps rise on her arms at the mention of his name. _Get a grip_, she chastised herself mentally. "I'm sorry to hear about your ordeal in the Narrows last Thursday."

"Not at all," Rachel said quickly, her voice a lot colder than she had meant it to be.

"We're sorry to keep you waiting," he added, gesturing to the clock and turning on his heel. "If you'd like to follow me."

Carmichael led her through a set of double-glass doors and up onto a landing where several officers sat around at desks, their eyes fixed on various monitors and screens. Some of them talked on telephones while others typed furiously at their computers. One officer in particular, a thin woman with poker-straight black hair and big brown eyes, smiled kindly up at her from behind a bright screen, her expression sympathetic. Rachel returned the smile but it faded quickly when she realised every eye in the room was now trained on her. Was it because they knew who she was in the context of their investigation? Did the smiling woman pity her? She shook her head and returned her to focus to DI Carmichael as he walked on ahead and down a dingy corridor. There were five doors on either side.

"Just through here," he informed her as they reached interview room number six, on the right hand side of the hallway, and pushed the door open. The decor inside could be described as minimalistic at best – the clinical white linoleum matched the four evenly spaced peeling plaster walls, and there was a metal table in the centre of the room that seemed to be bolted to the floor. A chair was tucked under on either side. Carmichael waved her forward and Rachel sat down, the sharp fluorescent lights stinging her eyes as she put her half-drunk cup of coffee on the table and released a lungful of air she felt as though she had been holding in for hours. The inspector took his place opposite her and smiled receptively. "Are you ready to begin?" he asked gently, his hand coming to rest on the 'record' button of the ancient, heavy-looking tape recorder on the desk.

She nodded, and he pressed down. The tape recorder whirred to life.

"Interview zero-one-six with Miss Rachel Dawes, conducted by Detective Inspector Ray Carmichael of the Gotham City Major Crimes Unit," he began, his voice suddenly more authoritative. "In relation to the arrest of Jonathan Crane, charged with the illegal creation and trafficking of class-A drugs with the intention to sell them on, multiple counts of grievous bodily harm, criminal damage to private property and most recently attempted kidnapping."

Rachel swallowed hard as she heard how much more genuine and severe Jonathan's crimes sounded when stated on tape by a senior police officer. Had they only recently come to light? And if not, how had he covered his tracks? She marvelled at the man's tenacity and made a point to ask him next time they met. _If you ever see him again_, said a nagging voice in the back of her mind that she steadfastly chose to ignore.

She watched as Carmichael relaxed slightly in his seat now that the formal, rehearsed part of the interview was over. He smiled again and rested his elbows on the table.

"Now Miss Dawes," he started, his voice even. "What can you tell me about the events of last Thursday evening, the twentieth of September, after you arrived at Arkham Asylum?"

She took a moment to gather her train of thought before she began. "I met Dr. Crane in the high security wing outside Carmine Falcone's cell."

"Why?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"He had filed a report with Judge Faden about Falcone's mental state and I had some... questions to ask him about it," she said smoothly. She even managed a placating smile.

"I see," said Carmichael, making a note of this in a black file on the desk, his face impassive. "What happened next?"

Rachel considered her next words very carefully before she said them. "Dr. Crane asked if he could show me something in the basement, so we got in the elevator and went downstairs. He didn't say what it was exactly," she promised quickly, drumming her fingernails apprehensively on the table. "But I assumed it wasn't anything dangerous."

"Okay," he said, nodding slowly, clicking his pen. "So you and Dr. Crane went down to the basement of the asylum, and..." He trailed off, indicating she should continue.

She sighed. "I'm not sure what happened next."

Carmichael's heavy grey brow furrowed and he nodded once more. "Understandable. That's absolutely fine," he assured her, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Now that Dr. Crane has been removed from his position as director of Arkham, we've been able to take a look at the CCTV footage. I am referring to AV file seven-two-two stroke one," he stated blandly, evidently for the benefit of the tape. "The video shows Dr. Crane releasing some kind of grey gaseous substance from a canister with the intention of forcing its effects onto you, Miss Dawes." She nodded, her jaw falling slack as she pretended to have no idea what he was talking about. "Chemical analysis of the substance, more of which was located in the basement earlier this week, has so far failed to return any conclusive results, although initial unscientific opinions are that it may be some kind of noxious narcotic drug."

The inspector paused, jotting down several notes before returning his focus to Rachel, his eyes narrowed slightly. She bit her lip, uneasy under his intense professional scrutiny. It was clear he knew she was hiding something.

"Hmm, well. We'll move on to the following morning, if that's alright with you, Miss Dawes," said Carmichael, lacing his long fingers beneath his chin.

"That's fine," she confirmed, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in her stomach that made her feel slightly nauseous.

"The CCTV footage suggests that you remained with Dr. Crane at his apartment in the Narrows overnight," he affirmed carefully, keeping his voice even. "Are you and he now or have you ever been romantically involved?"

Rachel felt her eyes grow to the size of dinner plates. "No, nothing like that," she said, her voice stronger now. "I barely know him," she admitted. "We've been in court together a few times but other than that..."

"I see," he cut her off. "So what happened during the night?" Carmichael seemed anxious to get to the crux of the situation now.

"I..." She thought back to that evening a week ago, recalling the chill of the wind as it lashed against her body, the crippling fear as Jonathan had gone to exit the room, to leave her completely alone, the warm, sinking feeling of relief as he had plunged the needle into her arm and the unrelenting pain had finally began to fade to blissful numbness. She remembered the softness of his dark raven hair between her fingertips, the intoxicating scent of his skin, the warmth and the feeling of safety that came with his arms wrapping tightly around her, holding her body to his... but those memories were private. She wasn't even sure herself whether to shake them off as quickly as possible or lock them inside her heart forever, and until she came to that decision, she had no intention of sharing them with anybody. Twisted as it may have been, that night belonged to no one but herself and Jonathan.

"Rachel," he prompted delicately, leaning forward. "We're here to help you."

"I don't remember anything," she whispered, unable to meet his eye, keeping her gaze fixed resolutely on the table between them. "I'm sorry."

"Ah," said Carmichael softly, nodding, a look of sudden understanding on his face. "Miss Dawes, I know that it's difficult, but we can't move any further with this investigation without your help. I promise you that we can make it easier. I understand that what you've been through was very traumatic, and I want you to know that we have some of the best people on hand right here to help you make a full recovery."

Rachel nodded, although she was sure she did not fully understand what the inspector was trying to say. Carmichael sighed, relaxing back in his seat.

"We knew Crane was a sick bastard, but this is a whole new ballgame," he told her, his voice determined. He smiled. "But we've got him now. With your help, Rachel, we can get sexual assault added to his list of offences, and then he'll go down for life, no questions asked."

She blinked, convinced she had misheard.

"Sexual assault," she repeated, her eyes widening in sudden comprehension.

"Don't worry, Miss Dawes," he said, his tone considerably more positive now than it had been at any other point during the interview. "You'll be protected. This won't be made public. We'll have you checked over at the hospital just as soon as..."

"You think he _raped _me?" she clarified, cutting across him apathetically, her voice icy, and she felt the colour rise in her cheeks. Her heart was thumping in her chest again and her fingers curled against the desktop as irrepressible anger bubbled up inside of her.

Detective Inspector Carmichael was taken aback. He dipped his chin and nodded once very slowly. "I'm slightly confused," he said, his eyebrows pulling together. "I thought..."

"You mean you _assumed _that was what happened," Rachel spat, her eyes narrowed, unable to believe what she had just heard. Was the inspector genuinely jumping to such radical conclusions with no evidence whatsoever? He had taken words out of her mouth! Her teeth ground together and her hands trembled as she fought to control her rage. She leant toward Carmichael across the table. "Jonathan didn't touch me," she said frostily, surprising even herself by her blasé use of Crane's first name. "He would never. He isn't that sort of guy."

"But you said you hardly know him," he pressed her, frowning. "That you..." He looked down at his notes and used his pen as a pointer. "Ah, here it is. That you only know each other from court. How, then, could you possibly know what sort of a person he is?"

"He isn't anything like what your lot think he is," she hissed, the words flying out of her mouth before she even had a chance to consider them.

"My lot?" He raised his eyebrows as he quoted her enquiringly.

"Yes, your lot - the police," she said, her voice slightly louder than it had been before. Her hackles were raised and Carmichael's mask of faux curiosity only fuelled her anger further. "You've already got him labelled as some kind of head case but have you heard what he's got to say about it? For all you know and for all you give a _shit_, he... he..." She struggled with her words, unsure of how to suitably phrase her opinion, the opinion that still had not formed fully in her head. She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose between her index finger and her thumb. "For all you know he could be a decent person."

Carmichael recoiled slightly, swallowing hard and readjusting his tie. His cheeks flushed pink. "Well then. I apologise for, ah, making assumptions, Miss Dawes. It wasn't my place."

Rachel exhaled and sat back in her chair, frustrated to realise that the familiar pounding headache was firmly back in place. She suddenly felt drained and closed her eyes for a moment as she tried to gather her emotions, to bury them back beneath surface where they belonged, to piece together her nonchalant façade once more. But it seemed the astute detective inspector had already borne witness to more than she wanted him to see. She turned and faced forward once more, so still that she felt her heartbeat resonate throughout her body, staring blankly down at the desk; in particular, at the black file Carmichael had been jotting down notes in.

He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and smiled lightly. "Are you ready to continue?" he asked, but Rachel was no longer listening. She had completely tuned out his voice, his face, his false, belittling grin as soon as she worked out how to read his loopy handwriting upside down.

"Delusional episodes?" she stipulated, her voice low and dangerous, her eyes stinging with either tears or sheer, uninhibited anger – Rachel wasn't sure which. Carmichael went to shut the file but she batted his hand away, her own quivering with fury. Her mouth dropped open as she read the next bullet point. "_Stockholm syndrome_?!" She couldn't believe the inspector – the nerve he had to patronise her, to promise her he cared, the assure her he understood what she was going through only to write her off as soon as her guard was lowered as some sort of certifiable damsel in distress? "I think we're finished, Detective Inspector Carmichael," she said, standing up and slamming her chair back under the desk. She spat his name as if it was some kind of dirty word.

"Rachel," he pleaded with her gently, following her as she threw herself out of the interview room and into the corridor. "It's more common than you might think – we have people that can you help you –"

"Leave me alone," she demanded, her voice shaking, before making a conscious effort to double her pace and walking away, refusing to look back, her eyes filled with tears.

/

**I really enjoyed writing that :P any thoughts? All comments and critique are welcome, as always. Chapter six will be up soon!**


	6. Chapter 6

**So I've been staring at this blank page all day now, trying really hard to write but nothing's been coming, and do you want to know why? Last night I watched Watching the Detectives, and oh my god, I've found it so hard to write Crane after seeing Cillian Murphy in such a different role! I love all of his fucked up characters and the way he plays them, but aw, he was so adorable as the protagonist! If anyone hasn't seen it, I wholeheartedly recommend it! Even if you detest rom-coms like me, it's impossible not to like a film like that.**

**Anyway, I'm going to man up and get over it. Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers - ChibiLady, Team Damon, wouldyouliketoseemymask, ZenyZootSuit, Theodore Hawkwood, VesperLogan12 and the rest!**

**Here's chapter six, enjoy and review pleeeeaaaase!**

/

_Six:_

For the thousandth time that day, Jonathan stared out of the window set into the heavy metal door of his cell and wondered what on earth had compelled that godforsaken imbecile Joan Leland to have him placed in the high-security wing of his own asylum. From this side of the observation window everything looked very different indeed – the lemon yellow and off-white walls he had had painted that colour a year ago were no longer cheerful or jolly but overly loud and irksome, and the room seemed far too small, the lights too bright. Dr. Leland had taken over the direction of Arkham since his incarceration and, according to word of mouth, to whispers he had heard in the dingy hallways of the asylum, personally recommended that the judge have him committed, declared insane and locked up for a good part of the foreseeable future. He gritted his teeth. She had been his intern when he was first promoted to director, for God's sake! She was far too impatient and unconfident in her decision making to take the head job – _his job_, a voice in his head added bitterly – and there was no way she could handle watching over some of the stronger personalities Arkham played host to. Every single morning she walked past his cell and shot him a sickly-sweet, smug grin, and every single morning he rolled his eyes and was forced to resist the almost overwhelming urge to give her the finger and shout to the heavens that she was an incompetent, unendurable idiot. It was clear from the way she nauseatingly strutted the corridors that she felt like a queen reining supreme, watching over her kingdom. But precious little Joan had not seen anything yet.

He curled his fingers in his hair as he watched a pair of uniformed guards escorting a new inmate down the hallway – as he watched them pull her along, a dark-haired girl that seemed to be in her mid-twenties, he was grateful for the fact they had removed his straitjacket at long last. At least now, particularly when compared to inmates like her, he had regained a little of his freedom. He raised his eyebrows as they sat her down in the cell opposite his own, cuffed her to the chair by her wrists and ankles and then took up their watchful positions within the cell itself rather than outside the door, standing sentinel on either side of her with semi-automatics visible in holsters on their belts. She stared at the ground and seemed to be seething in anger, her long hair thrown over one shoulder, her foot tapping on the floor... then she threw her head back, looked up and impaled him on the end of her unhinged glare. The girl's chocolate brown eyes bore into his and suddenly he was at the window, his nose pressed against the glass, his mind refusing to accept what he saw.

_Rachel. _

He knew those eyes like he knew how to spell his own name. _It's impossible. There's no way..._

But then his momentarily frozen heart started beating again and he sighed as he took a moment to properly look at her. Now he saw that the female inmate's hair was the wrong colour, mousy brown rather than the lustrous shade of ash that he had grown used to seeing. Her complexion was too pallid and those chocolate brown eyes, while deranged, lacked the radiance and luminosity he invariably saw in Rachel's. He sighed, realising his disappointment, before he sat down on his bed and held his head in his hands. _You tried to kill her_. The voice in his head repeated the lie again and again – he thought that if he convinced himself murdering Rachel had been his intention all along, and that saving her life had been nothing more than an accident, a heinous mistake, then he would be able to revert to his previous way of thinking. He would be able to go back to believing Rachel Dawes was nothing more than one of the many insufferable, idealistic sheep that Gotham was home to, born to be bound by the shackles of modern society and go about her pleasant little day to day life, working in the DA's office from nine till five until the day she died. But it was difficult to do that now he knew how wrong he had been about her.

She had immediately seen through his mask of cool indifference and professionalism. Rachel wasn't stupid; in fact, he would not have been surprised if she had realised his corruptness from the very first time they had entered that courtroom together. She had narrowed her eyes icily in response to his comments, had shown her audacity during Zsasz's case when she laughed impertinently at his speech, had spent her life training and devoted her days to fighting the uphill battle that was the ignoble justice system of Gotham City. Yet when her defences were lowered, when her drugged mind had taken the wheel and her emotions reigned free in a way they were unable to in the light of day, she had craved his close proximity, his touch, and there was no way she could deny it. And he had not taken advantage, merely offered her reassurance, comfort, protection from the demons she had been forced to fight that night in response to his drug. In the morning, she had not shied away. He lay back, recalling the image of Rachel standing in the doorframe that led onto his balcony, her hair tangled, her makeup smudged and her eyes burning with questions he had for some reason found himself unable to answer. For the first time since they had met, in that moment, she had let her emotions, her sense of instinct take control rather than her morals, her cool head. And it had been truly beautiful.

He huffed, sitting bolt upright again and hugging his knees, a scowl on his face. Due to the fact that smoking was strictly forbidden among inmates – a rule he now silently cursed himself for introducing several months ago – he had been tetchy and irritable since his imprisonment in more ways than one. Which was why, a minute or so later, when he heard several crashes outside in the hallway and noticed the sudden absence of light in his cell, he leapt to his feet, groaning in exasperation as he prepared to hurl an onslaught of abuse in the direction of whatever ineffectual staff member was responsible for the disturbance. There was a shout, several high-pitched screams then five gunshots rang out. Jonathan's eyebrows pulled together in bemusement. Everything went silent again, so silent that he heard himself breathing slowly, then he started as the door to his cell burst open and two officers in bulletproof vests and S.W.A.T gear traipsed in. For a moment he just stared blankly at them, slightly amused by the disjointed chaos but still mystified, then he thought back to the countless board meetings, business deals with Falcone, private sessions with patients in his capacity as director of Arkham. He had treated both of these men before. They were working for him.

The taller of the two men lowered his weapon and tossed his burlap sack mask at him. "Time to play," he said, smirking, before turning on his heel and exiting the cell, deliberately leaving the door wide open.

Jonathan remained stock-still for a second, attempting to process the absurdity of the situation, then he grinned, pulling the mask on over his head as he stepped over the threshold. It had come sooner than he expected. _Time to play indeed_.

/

Downtown Gotham was pandemonium.

The word was spreading like a virus – a noxious inhalant substance had been released into the air via the city's communal water grid, dispersed as a gas through the use of a highly-powered microwave emitter, originally invented as a weapon to be used in desert warfare to quickly, efficiently and above all untraceably destroy the water supply of an enemy. Rachel had overheard the conversation between two patrolmen after she had returned a small boy to his mother – a small boy she had found cowering in the street alone and been unable to abandon – and had immediately been able to add two and two together in her head. The voices of the officers in question had been echoing through the mouthpieces of their gas masks at the time, apparatus that seemed to be stopping them from suffering the effects of the toxin. But Rachel breathed normally as though the air was clear, and still her mind remained untainted. The drug had failed, but only on her... which meant one thing. Rachel was safe, inoculated, immune to its effects.

Jonathan Crane.

It all fit. Now she understood what he had been doing in the basement at Arkham. Now she understood the rumours, the subtle insinuations she had been hearing and ignoring for weeks of the doctor's _real _motivations for remaining at the asylum when he could easily have found another position in a more high-profile location. Now she understood the whispered allegations, the horrifying stories of his experiments on his patients, the way he had abused his position of ultimate power and trust. But even now, as she stood in an alleyway she had not previously known existed with her forehead pressed against the cool bricks, trying to regulate her breathing and slow her thumping heart, she didn't want to believe the inevitable, couldn't force her mind to process the truth. After building up an image in her head of the man who had saved her – not the polished, disdainful, now former director of Arkham Asylum, but the enigmatic, gentle soul with the tousled bed hair and a trace of fear, of weakness, of fleeting vulnerability in those arresting blue eyes – it stung to even consider the possibility that it had been false. She banged her head against the wall, the frustration she had felt over the last few weeks getting the better of her as she realised she had done what she had always strived to avoid in her capacity as an independent, professional woman. She had let her heart rule her head, allowed her feelings to take control of her decisions, her actions, and now, it was her that had been left feeling lost. Crane had been locked away in his own asylum two weeks ago and it had therefore instead been his bubbly, grating female replacement that had appeared in court opposite Rachel as an expert witness during the last three hearings she had attended. And still, every single time, as she had crossed the threshold into the courtroom and taken her place at her desk beside Carl Finch, she hoped she would see his handsome face again, watch him stride past her and enter the witness box, catch a glimpse of that intuitive, knowing sparkle in his striking eyes. She knew it was impossible, but still it had caused an uncomfortable pang in her stomach when he failed to appear.

_Oh, Dr. Crane, _she thought toward him, wherever he was now, unable to prevent a little longing smile from forming on her lips. _What have you done to me?_

The atmosphere had begun to clear over the last few minutes, the air returning to its usual transparency around her. She could no longer hear screaming or yelling of any kind, which she supposed could only be a good thing. Night had fallen quickly and imperceptibly in wake of the chaos that had ensued and, as Rachel scanned the street outside the mouth of the alleyway and set off, slightly gingerly, in the opposite direction to that which would take her toward the Narrows, she wished she had thought to pick up a jacket before she'd left her apartment. The streets that had been swarming with terrified, drugged civilians had cleared, leaving behind an eerie, unnatural silence that, combined with the traces of pale toxin in the air and the deep, unfathomable, almost tangible darkness, sent a chill down her spine. Gotham was a bustling, teeming city. She had never seen it like this before. Pitch-black, soundless... it was like being inside a vacuum. She quickened her pace subconsciously, hugging herself with her arms in a fruitless attempt to keep warm. Without realising, she began humming a tune as she walked briskly, the uncomplicated, childlike notes familiar and somewhat comforting.

_Hush little baby, don't say a word, Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird..._

She pushed a hand through her hair and turned a corner, the bridge that led off the island coming back into view – it was still raised. She frowned, knowing her only escape route was still cut off, but pressed on through the darkness anyway.

_And if that mockingbird don't sing, Mama's going to buy you a diamond ring..._

It was then that she realised she was breathing more audibly, more deeply than she had thought. With her nerves evidently getting the better of her and forcing her to practically jog along the deserted street, it wasn't any wonder she was getting out of breath. She passed the mouth of another alleyway and paused, more out of physical necessity than desire, her hand brushing against the bricks, and she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose. She held her breath. Then her eyes shot open. Still she heard ragged breathing, but this time, it was most definitely not hers.

Not daring to release the gulp of air she held in her lungs, she turned slowly, her back against the wall, and faced the cavernous, yawning darkness that was the mouth of the alleyway. Her breath hitched and her skin prickled, her pounding heartbeat shaking her entire body. With all the confidence she could muster, she called, "Hello?" But the darkness failed to respond. After a moment, convinced she was being ridiculous, Rachel turned her back on the alleyway and sighed through pursed lips, feeling slightly calmer now that she knew she was completely alone. Then she heard light, quick footsteps, felt a hand clamp down on her mouth from behind and screamed.

Strong arms grabbed and pulled her whole body backwards into the alley and a hand remained over her mouth, absorbing her panicked cries and keeping her head facing upwards. She kicked back with her legs as the man dragged her but her aim was completely off – she missed, her feeble attempts eliciting a low chuckle from somewhere behind her. There was a pause, in which neither of them moved.

"I'm going to let go now," came a shockingly familiar voice by her ear, a quietly patronising edge to it even now. "And I'd really prefer it if you didn't scream."

As promised, Jonathan abruptly released his hold on her and she wheeled around, fury bubbling up inside her chest. She was about to fire a tirade of verbal abuse at him for attacking her, for frightening her, for forcing her to question every goddamn one of her morals, but she saw his pained expression, the way he suddenly dropped to his knees with one leg stuck out at an uncomfortable angle and held back. His breath was coming in sharp, quick pants. Her eyebrows pulled together and she crouched down in front of him, staring up into his indignant eyes.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, panic in her voice. Could he be seriously injured?

"It's nothing," he assured her, but his voice cracked and he groaned. He moved his hand down to his right calf but Rachel caught it with both of her own. The material of his suit was ripped and frayed and, as her gaze trailed down his leg, she gasped. Immediately above his ankle was a deep, bloody gash – the edges were angry and puckered and a steady trickle of red had already stained his skin, bled through the material of his trousers. An alarmingly thick shard of glass stuck precariously out of the wound.

"You're hurt," she told him weakly, stupidly, instinctively moving her fingers across his skin. He grimaced, his cheeks flushed with pink.

"Thanks for your diagnosis, Rachel," he muttered sarcastically, a smile in his voice.

She raised her eyebrows at his nonchalance. Where was this man's sense of urgency? "You need help," she clarified, inching back from him when she felt her heart flutter. "I'll go find someone, let me-"

"No, its fine," he said frostily, making a move as if he was going to stand up.

Alarm bells immediately chimed in Rachel's head and without thinking she put her hand on his chest, stopping him from sitting up. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. Jonathan sighed and allowed her to push him backwards so that he leant against the brick wall. She knelt up, not taking her eyes off of him. "If you won't let me get you help..." She sighed and looked around, considering her options. He certainly had some explaining to do, but in light of his current situation, that could wait until later. For now, she needed to help him. _Save him like he saved you_, nagged a persistent little voice in her head. "I'm going to help you myself."

"I didn't realise you were a medical professional," he said gently, as though he was laughing at her rather than being patronising for once.

"I'm not," she said. "But I've taken first aid courses like everyone else in my office. And I'm not about to sit here and watch you bleed to death."

"I think that's a little extreme," he began to say, but Rachel was on her feet. "Where are you going?" he asked, a hint of anxiousness in his voice. He went to stand up once more, whether consciously or not, Rachel wasn't sure. Either way, she wasn't going to let it happen. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down again, chucking once, feeling like a parent persistently chastising her petulant child for repeating the same bad behaviour.

"You're really not helping," she told him. "There's a McDonalds right next door to where we are now. They've got to have a first aid kit, right?"

"Wait." He reached a hand out and touched her arm, sending a spark of electricity coursing across her skin. She inhaled sharply and leant down to him. "You mean to say you're planning on patching me up yourself?"

"You'd better believe it," she said, a smile she considered to be somewhat placating plastered across her face. "The doctor is in."

/

**Ideas? Opinions? ANYTHING? Send me a review please!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys, me again :3**

**Well, lovely little readers of mine, if you haven't noticed by now (which I hope you have – we're seven chapters in so there's no going back now), I am a ridiculously obsessed Cillian Murphy fangirl. The accent. The hair. The cheekbones. THE EYES. Need I go on? Anyway, I just watched the movie Sunshine before I started writing this chapter, so hopefully I'll glean a little inspiration from that. On a different note, it makes me sad how few Jonathan x Rachel shippers there are out there. We've got to stick together! But I have noticed a distinct lack of reviews lately. My traffic stats for this story are still pretty high, but less and less of you are reviewing – I don't mind what you write, bad or good, it's just that reviews are what keep me motivated! So if you have time, please drop me a line or two. It won't hurt, right?**

**Anyway, ignore me, I'm rambling now, here's chapter seven...**

/

After what had been a fairly disastrous evening from the off, things seemed to be looking up for Jonathan when Rachel Dawes had, entirely by chance, passed by the mouth of the alleyway he was resting in and, despite presumably knowing that the chaos that had gone down in the Narrows over the last few hours had mainly been his fault, fortuitously decided not to start hating him quite yet. In his carelessly anxious and partially drugged state, he had fallen through a shattered glass doorway back at Arkham and landed himself in a somewhat uncomfortable position. Thankfully, from then on, he had managed to avoid the more toxin-permeated sections of the island and kept a reasonably clear head – while deep, the wound on his leg looked to be a whole lot worse than it actually was. He hoped Rachel would not have too much trouble fixing it up, at least enough that he could walk. He swallowed, suddenly apprehensive to face her again. Would she believe that unleashing his toxin upon the unsuspecting civilians of Gotham had never been a part of his plan? Somehow he didn't think so. He shook his head, ignoring the twinge in his ankle, wondering _yet again _why he cared so much about what she thought of him. And it was not the first time that he had been unable to come up with an answer.

As he leant back against the bricks and massaged an ache in his neck, he couldn't help but wonder where he would be able to go from here, what his next step was going to be. His contract with the infamous Ra's Al Ghul had been fulfilled, and he was fairly certain no other asylum or psychiatric practice would take him on any time in the near future in light of his recent incarceration, not to mention the fact that he was now an _escaped_, wanted man. His criminality had only recently been made official, despite the hilarious reality that he had in fact been buying and dealing drugs under the nose of the law for several years now, covered by nothing but a gang of hired men, an adopted alter ego and a hood of burlap sacking. He would be lying if he said he was only in it for the money. As he had pointed out to Rachel not long ago, psychopharmacology was his primary field. Selling his creations made up only a small part of what he did – it was the business side, the tiresome, unexciting side; tedious but necessary. No, creating a profit was not what had motivated Jonathan three and a half years ago to risk his security, his job, to put everything he had trained and worked hard for on the line. Throughout his entire life he had craved knowledge, the ability to stretch and broaden his mind, to become the best at what he did – in order to do that, he had to experiment, to throw himself into the breach and out onto the field in which he worked, and so he had started carrying out his own personal research involving, in the early stages, mild narcotics. At first it had been perfectly legal, his trials involving only the safest, cleanest, most refined pharmaceuticals, but these had gotten very boring very quickly. The scale of his plans increased and his experiments became less and less ethical, particularly when he introduced a choice selection of his patients at Arkham to his laboratory. That was when the real fun had begun. The Scarecrow had quickly become a formidable figure on the eerie city streets but, over the past year, he had fallen back from the front line of Gotham's drugs trade and devoted all of his time and energy to perfecting, refining and weaponising his infamous toxin, exploiting and playing on the one thing that was able to disturb and unhinge the human mind more than anything else – fear.

He sighed. Was there any other alternative for him now than to revert back to his old ways? He remembered the sense of trepidation, of excitement, the thrill he felt when he realised a compound of his own creation had the ability to work its way inside a subject's mind, to alter their actions, their thought processes, their internal systems entirely, to shape and mould them into whatever it was that he desired. But how would he find willing participants now that he had lost his integrity, not to mention access to his supply of resources? Jonathan frowned. There had to be a way.

At that moment, Rachel rounded the corner of the alleyway again, tendrils of her hair strewn across her flush face as she knelt down in front of him once more, a little green case in her hand. As she sat, he caught a trace of the scent of her perfume on the light evening breeze.

"Okay, what have we got here?" she murmured under her breath, to herself rather than him, as she unclasped the lid of the first aid kit and began rummaging through its contents. "Here," she said, pulling out a thick wad of soft, white gauze, a roll of waterproof medical tape and a handful of alcohol swabs. "Right. Uh. Okay." She bit her lip as she gazed down at the little pile of supplies.

He raised his eyebrows. "You're not exactly filling me with confidence, Rachel."

She narrowed her eyes and picked up an alcohol swab, pulling it out of its sterile packet and gently rolling up his blood-spattered trouser leg with her free hand. "Feel free to do it yourself, _Doctor_," she said with a sardonic smile. He smirked. "This is going to hurt a little."

Gingerly at first, then gradually applying more pressure, Rachel leant forward and carefully began to sterilise his wound with the alcohol-soaked pad, resting the elbow of her unoccupied arm on his good leg. He winced in response to the excruciating sting of the alcohol as it came into contact with his raw flesh, his teeth grinding together, and he bit back a groan as she neared the glass shard's point of entry with the swab. She bit her lip again, this time in concentration, and he focused on her face, the various brown hues in her eyes, her ever-shifting expression, as a means of distraction.

"Nearly done," she promised a moment later as she ripped open a second alcohol swab. He glanced down but, to his surprise, as soon as he did so, she reached out with her free hand and gently pulled his face back up to look at her again. "Keep your eyes on me," she instructed, her own eyes smouldering, a small smile threatening the corners of her mouth. His eyebrows pulled together in confusion but he did as she said, not looking down again as she worked away on his wound. He noticed that their breathing had fallen back into an identical rhythm once more and, despite the sharp, piercing pain Rachel was inflicting upon him, he couldn't help but smile amusedly up at her. She grinned contritely. Then he found himself crying out in agony.

"Fuck!" he cursed vociferously, shuddering in pain as his cut leg protested against whatever Rachel was doing. He squeezed his eyes shut, only vaguely aware that he was still muttering swear words under his breath - all that seemed to be registering in his mind was the fact that the ferocious stinging sensation he felt had doubled, no, _tripled _in the last few seconds. If he had not known any better he would have thought his skin had caught alight, and so he sat upright, biting down hard on his fist in a dismal attempt to district himself. The pain spiked... then faded instantly to nothing but a blissful, anesthetised numbness. His eyes shot open and he sucked in a sharp breath. Rachel held a thick, bloody shard of glass between her now gloved fingers, and there was a sheepish smile on her face. "Rachel!"

"Well, it had to come out, didn't it?" She discarded the glass into the shadows and wiped over his injury once more with the alcohol swab she held; to his surprise, still, he felt no pain. He glared down at her hand and his mouth fell open. Despite the momentary hell she had forced him though the previous minute, Rachel had done a fantastic job. The wound was completely clean and showed no sign of infection setting in. She smiled at his reaction. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" she said, her voice dripping with false condescension. He scowled and rolled his eyes.

"Can you just put the bandage on and get this over with?"

Now it was Rachel's turn to throw a frosty glare his way. "I'm just about to," she told him slowly, callously, as though addressing a small child. She unwound the bandage roll and set about charily dressing his wound. "I really don't owe you anything, you know," she said quietly. When he failed to reply a moment later, she looked up. He caught her gaze and bit his lip – for once in his life, no smart retorts or bitingly sarcastic comments sprung to mind.

"I'm sorry," he sighed lamely, knowing full well that was not the answer she was hoping for.

"I take it you mean you're sorry for snapping at me just now," she clarified, taping the soft white bandage pads down and opening another alcohol swab packet. "And not for what happened last week."

Jonathan frowned as he tried to gather his thoughts and organise them into some kind of understandable structure. The incident at Arkham had most definitely been a wake-up call, a shock to the system, like an oncoming storm, that he had on some level anticipated for a while – but was he sorry? Did he regret the fact that his highly-concentrated toxin had penetrated the deepest alcoves of Rachel's mind and forced a great deal of the emotion she habitually bottled up and buried beneath the surface to take free reign over her senses, her fundamental actions? He had watched the tears roll down her cheeks, felt her warm, nimble fingers come to rest against the skin at his waist, heard her frenetic voice as she pleaded for him not to leave her alone in the darkness. In a way he had set her free that night, liberated the emotions that seemed to have been fighting against their internal restraints for a long while, and he believed, in a way, Rachel understood that. She hadn't been angry with him the following morning on his balcony when she discovered what he had been doing, what he had unintentionally almost done.

"I _am _sorry for what happened last week," he said sincerely, sitting up against the wall so that their heads were almost level, their faces inches apart. "Killing you, or even attempting to kill you, was never my intention. And for that I truly am sorry."

She nodded, her eyes wide. "But..?"

He sighed. "But I'm not sorry for everything. When I drugged you, Rachel, for the first time in as long as I've known you, you totally lost control. You tuned out your sense of right and wrong and listened to your feelings instead. And it was incredible."

Rachel dipped her chin and sat back on her heels, her gaze wary. She didn't meet his eye, focussing instead on making a big deal of folding over the end of the roll of tape she held into a perfect point. "That's beside the point." She looked up. "I read through your case file at the office during the week. What you do is vile."

Her voice didn't shake. No resentment. No fear. Her body language betrayed her. This was basic human psychology - Rachel was not angry, despite how hard she was trying to make it seem so.

"What do you mean by 'what I do'?" he mused, curious as to what she'd heard, whether she had drawn her own conclusions, reviewed evidence or simply swallowed lies like everybody else had a tendency to do. But then, Rachel was full of surprises.

"You deal drugs," she said plainly, calculatingly. "The Mob bosses tell you what they're after, they pay up and you manipulate your patients at Arkham into being subjects for you to test the drugs you formulate on." She raised her eyebrows. "Am I right?"

"Half right." Rachel shot him a dubious look and crossed her legs, coming back down to his level. Jonathan shrugged. He was surprised that she underestimated him. "I couldn't care less about catering to the whims of the Mob. None of my compounds are made to order. If they're interested in what I make, they come to me and buy it, but I don't change my formulas for anyone."

She nodded, pushing her hair back with her hand. She gazed into space for a moment, deep in thought, before fixing her eyes back on his face. "Why not?" she asked after a second's brief but obvious hesitation, her voice slightly tart as though she hated herself for being curious. He could tell she was an attorney to her core; always asking the difficult questions, her mind yearning for the answers that were just out of reach. "Surely they would have to pay you more?"

"That isn't my concern," he told her completely truthfully. "That day at the asylum when I told you why I do what I do, I wasn't exaggerating. The power the mind has over the body is staggering. And the fact that we can take that power and change it with nothing but willpower and a few basic chemicals..." He broke off, running a hand through his hair. "It really is unbelievable. In a way..." He paused, then laughed once. "Despite the illegalities, I'm doing what I always wanted to."

Rachel cocked her head, her eyes searching his face. Their faces were centimetres apart, their noses almost touching. He felt her warm breath against his skin as she spoke. "That's despicable," she whispered, and he wasn't sure whether or not she had meant for him to hear. Her voice was not angry but tinged with regret. She dropped her gaze from his. "Was just being a psychiatrist too mundane for you?" she asked, her voice hard and humourless.

He shrugged. "I guess it was."

Rachel inhaled sharply and leant back on her hands, pulling herself away from him. She rolled her eyes up to the sky and hunched her shoulders forward resignedly, her posture and facial expression portraying a deep-rooted uncertainty he had never seen there before. It felt bizarre to discuss what he did so casually with her, as though she didn't have the power or the motivation to turn him in at a moment's notice. But something about the way she spoke, the way she listened carefully to his reasoning, told him Rachel had no such intention. As he watched, she folded her arms and, if he had not known any better, he would have said he saw her eyes cloud over with the ghosts of tears. She was clearly upset, but by no means angry; specifically why, he could not say.

"Talk to me," he implored her, leaning forward, suddenly sounding a lot more like the fervent, compassionate psychiatrist he pretended to be on a daily basis.

She fiddled briefly with the little crystal stud that hung at her earlobe. Her eyes widened. She seemed to be weighing up her words before she said them. Could she be afraid of accidentally insulting him? When she spoke, it was clear this was not the case. "I thought you were different," she admitted gently, cocking her head wistfully. "Different from the... low-life, bottom-feeding criminals I have to deal with every day. But now I'm not so sure."

She turned away from him so that her face was half in shadow, her features thrown into sharp relief. For a moment Jonathan felt an old, long-suppressed surge of anger bubble up inside him, but a second later he had forced it down out of habit, giving way to a shard of ice that stabbed and stung somewhere deep down in his heart. He swallowed, his eyes following her movements intently.

"Why... drugs?" she asked abruptly, not looking at him, refusing to meet his eye, her voice lowering as though she had said some kind of dirty word. "Jesus." Rachel trailed her gaze across the ground and back to his face. "Of all things, why does your fascination have to be something that's so... illegal and depraved and _awful_?" She bit her lip ruefully as though worried she might offend him, but her voice was stronger now – her tone demanded answers and most definitely honesty.

He had to laugh at her sudden seriousness. "'Awful!'" he imitated her with a smile, cocking his head animatedly to one side as she had. Her mouth dropped open in incredulity and she put an outraged hand on her hip, but this only fuelled his laughter even more. She narrowed her eyes, but a moment later the ice behind them had melted and she raised a hand to her mouth to obscure her own bashful smile. She shook her head at him, lackadaisically attempting to force a sombre look back onto her face.

"I'm serious," she said, leaning back toward him.

And in that moment, it was as though Jonathan felt gravity shift. The fine line they had been walking along together since that first sentencing hearing, the line that had been falling away, depleting, getting thinner and swaying precariously for weeks now, suddenly jolted. It was like standing on a knife edge. And right then, a nagging voice in his mind told him that moment would be crucial. Their relationship was hanging in the balance. The knife edge had grown too narrow and they were about to fall off one side or the other. He brushed off the niggling sense of significance and urgency that had set in and tried to make light of the situation, but it was difficult. They had come so far since that first meeting in the courtroom. Both had seen the other vulnerable, defenceless and in pain. Walls had been irreparably broken down. There would be no turning back now. Neither could forget.

"Come on, Rachel." He laughed, but failed to summon any genuine humour into the sound. "You must have some idea. Are you telling me you've never, I don't know, gotten in with the wrong crowd and just... gone along with whatever they were doing?"

She pursed her lips. "I smoked pot in college once," she admitted, flashes of pink crossing her cheeks. "Well..." She shrugged, feigning detachment, and wrapped a few strands of her dark hair around her finger. "More than once."

He smiled. "You know how it can make you feel."

Rachel nodded, biting her lip and staring at the ground as though she was mortified by her admission.

"And it's that _feeling _that captivates my interest so much," he went on. "Only a few things in this world can give us the same heightened euphoria that narcotics can. Or the same sense of dread, or anxiety... or fear. Whatever you want. Any emotion in the world, captured and refined into a compound that can penetrate the mind. And that, Rachel, is why I do what I do."

/

**Any ideas where this is going yet? :P Keep reviewing please, and look out for chapter eight!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Here I am, back with chapter eight! I'm enjoying this, haha, so I hope you are too!**

**Thanks again for all your lovely reviews, as a writer they really do mean everything to me. Please keep them coming!**

**/**

Rachel watched, her eyes alight with curiosity, her mind still turning over on itself in reaction to his last words, as Jonathan reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He put the filter end between his lips and searched his pocket again, for his lighter, she guessed, but his hand was empty when he took it out. He sighed, pulled the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it back into his pocket.

"I hear those are bad for you," she said lightly. A bitingly cold breeze suddenly blew through the alleyway and she folded her arms, suppressing a violent shiver. How long had she been sitting here with Jonathan Crane, the formidable Scarecrow, the man presumably topping Gotham's current most wanted list? She shuddered, but this time she was not sure if it was related to the weather.

"Are you cold?" he asked, ignoring her acerbic comment. He was already shrugging out of his suit jacket, always the gentleman.

"I'm fine," she mumbled, instinctively leaning away from him as he moved. Unfortunately, right at that moment, another gust of icy wind whistled through the air and her teeth audibly ground together.

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," he said coldly, bracing his arms against the floor. He bent his legs and made an attempt to stand, but his wounded calf was obviously going a long way to hinder his efforts - he groaned and sank back down. He sighed once more. "Maybe not."

"You can't stay out here all night," she told him, not surprised, as such, but discomfited that she cared at all. It was because of the man that sat in front of her that hordes of murderers, drug dealers and rapists had been released to roam the streets of Gotham that night, that countless buildings had been vandalised and destroyed, that thousands of civilians were likely lying at roadsides or in ditches, completely alone, being forced to fight a mental battle against their darkest, most deep-rooted fears. He had committed an act so immoral and depraved that it made Rachel feel sick, sick to the pit of her stomach, but now, as she watched him fall to the ground, weak, injured and moaning in pain, every single one of the fundamental principles she had abided by for as long as she could remember forbade her from leaving him alone in that alleyway.

He clearly detected the uncertainty she failed abysmally to hide in her voice. "Rachel, now might be a good time to stop pretending you care about what happens to me," he chided, his tone icy.

She frowned. "What?"

He scoffed, his expression hard. "I'm a low-life, bottom-feeding criminal, remember? Everything that your office exists to fight against." There was something else there, an ulterior motive hiding in the shadow of his words. His voice posed a challenge, dared her to answer back. What result was he hoping for? Rachel wondered what kind of a game he was trying to play.

"I care," she muttered, her voice unintentionally feeble. She cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows. "You're lucky that it was only me who found you here. There are worse people out there tonight."

"Ha," he laughed derisively, harshly. "Like who?"

Rachel was no psychiatrist, but she could tell he was trying to get a rise out of her, to force a response. The way he eyed her was challenging and exigent, and his anger sounded... not false, but desultory. What limit was he attempting to push her toward and why? Her eyes narrowed and she stood up defensively, feeling her hackles rise. She stared down at him, her hands on her hips, taking advantage of her position of physical superiority.

"You're the _notorious _drug dealer," she spat, her temper flaring. "You tell me. Just who is after you, Jonathan? Or do you prefer Scarecrow?" He gaped at her as the colour rose in his cheeks, her words apparently stunning him into uncharacteristic silence. She took advantage of his speechlessness and continued, letting the vehemence she had felt every single time he frustrated her in that courtroom seep acidly into her voice. "Is it the police? The doctors at the asylum? The Mob?" She bent down to his level, her face hot. "Who's out to get you?" she hissed.

He closed his piercing eyes for a moment and rubbed his temple with his fingertips. When he reopened them, they were cold, impossibly, painfully so, and more dangerous than she had ever seen. "You don't know anything," he murmured, his voice low. "Like everyone else in this city, Rachel, you think you're so incorruptible, so far above people like me, people like _us_. But you're wrong." He smirked cruelly, shaking his head. "You have nothing to threaten me with."

Rachel swallowed, her heart pounding, her blood roaring in her ears. "I could turn you in," she murmured portentously, recollections of everything she had ever professed to dislike about Jonathan Crane suddenly flooding back to her. Her hands started to tremble.

"You wouldn't dare." His face was a mask of livid contempt.

"Wouldn't I?" she challenged in a ruthless whisper.

For a moment the world ground to a halt on its axis as they stared at each other, one face wary, the other incredulous. Then, a second later, Rachel felt the earth fall away and the breath get knocked out of her. She sucked in a gulp of air and gasped as her back came roughly into contact with the brick wall, her hands trapped so tightly behind her body that she started to lose feeling in her fingertips. She closed her eyes, reacting to the adrenaline she felt coursing around her body, as Jonathan gripped her arm with one strong hand and her throat with the other. She kicked out but he dodged her misguided blows, pushing her harder and harder against the wall until she grimaced and whimpered in pain.

"Don't you see what's going on here, Rachel?" he asked her, his voice quiet and deadly. She opened her mouth to scream but he silenced her roughly with his hand and pulled back on her hair so forcefully that her head smacked backwards against the wall with a bone-chilling _crack_. She didn't pass out but black spots clouded her vision and she had to squeeze her eyes shut again to block out the world that had started to spin. His grip tightened around her neck and she reopened her eyes to glare back at him.

"Let me go," she bit out, her voice weak. She felt his breath against her lips and could make out every detail of his face from this angle, so close that she could count his long, dark eyelashes, that she could breathe and lose herself in his intoxicating cigarettes-and-peppermint scent...

"You've got to make a choice," he whispered threateningly, ignoring her plea, moving his hand away from her mouth and trailing it down the side of her face, his fingers catching the loose hairs that hung down by her ear. She turned her head stiffly, a bolt of electricity running down her spine, so that her cheek pressed against the cold bricks. "You're either with me or against me," he said, pulling her face back to look at him. "And something that life has taught me recently is that you can't have it both ways. I'm not one of the good guys, Rachel, but you know what? I don't think you are either. And you're going to have to realise that."

She twisted in his arms but, the more she fought, the harder he forced her body back against the wall – the height at which he held her meant she had to stand on her toes to remain upright, and she was certain there would be bruises around her neck and shoulders from where he had gripped her by the morning. Rachel slowly turned her head and made herself look at him once more, expecting to be impaled on the end of his hateful glare, but instead, as their eyes met, she watched as his expression cooled then softened slightly. They was so little space between them that she felt his breathing slow. She stopped resisting his touch and went limp in his arms, allowing her body to become a dead weight.

"Jonathan," she whispered, her gaze drifting from his eyes down to his jaw, the gentle curve of his lips then back to his eyes again. "You've got to let me go. Please." Her voice cracked on the last word, and her heart rate accelerated.

A second passed. Two seconds. Three. Then Jonathan laughed once, a dry, wistful, humourless sound that raised the hairs on the back of her neck, sent a shiver down her spine and broke her heart all at the same time. There was a glint in his eye that she had most definitely never seen there before; a sparkle of fervour, a glimmer of long-subdued insanity. He loosened his hold on her and lowered her back to the ground, but he didn't let go. His long, elegant fingers remained at her throat like a ghostly caress, and her balled hands rested against his chest, her eyes searching his face. To an onlooker, it might seem like some kind of romantic interlude.

"We can't stay here," he murmured, quietly but offhandedly as though the ordeal of the last minute and a half had never happened. He blinked as he swiftly withdrew his hand, and the madness that had flashed in his eyes seconds before disappeared entirely.

Her mouth fell open. "What?" How could one man be so changeable?

"Rachel, you're freezing," he told her calmly, rationally, and once again he removed his jacket and held it out in her direction. She eyed him incredulously. What on earth had just happened? Slowly, cautiously, she turned and let him guide her arms into the sleeves of his jacket, and suddenly she felt glad to be enveloped in its warmth, not to mention his intoxicating scent that lingered within the fabric. She went to face him again but, before she could move, he had circled and stood in front of her, his eyes analytical and scrutinising like those of a predator staring down its prey. She held her breath subconsciously and wished more than anything, in that precise moment, for the ability to read his mind. The last few _hours_, let alone weeks, had taught her just how unreadable, how volatile, how _impossible_ the man that stood before her tended to be, and it would have been nice to believe she had the upper hand for just a little while.

_No such luck._

He moved to the mouth of the alleyway and cast around – for inspiration, for signs of life, Rachel did not know what. He tapped his foot on the ground. She frowned, gazing down at his 'injury' from which he seemed to be making a startlingly speedy recovery. A car horn blared somewhere in the distance. Rachel knew it must surely have been getting late, but something told her she would not be sleeping anytime soon.

/

Jonathan's head was a mess.

Not only had he allowed his emotions to take free reign, he had lost control entirely, surrendering it temporarily to the allegorical, intangible, dark side of his psyche that he had denied and suppressed for as long as he could remember. As far as Jonathan knew, the Scarecrow had, in recent months, become nothing more than a character, an alter-ego, an act that he could put on at will to face and fool his customers and to conceal his identity. He thought he had beaten him down for good. But it seemed he had been wrong. Once upon a time, when Jonathan had been in college, an insufferable psychiatrist named Dr. Mortimer had labelled him a textbook case of the most common form of multiple personality disorder. The good doctor had told him that the concept of the 'Scarecrow' was most likely based on a childish fear that had simply never faded and gone on to manifest itself in a more sinister way during his adolescence. It was nothing to worry about, Dr. Mortimer had been quick to assure him, before writing him a prescription of sleeping pills and promising that the Scarecrow would stop bothering him soon enough when he learnt to properly balance his stress with sleep and plenty of respite. And for a long while, it had worked.

But recently, Jonathan seemed to be finding less and less peace in his own mind. There was always a nagging sensation, a grating feeling, a yawning, gaping kind of void that screamed silently and constantly for attention. And today, for the first time since he was twenty years old, the Scarecrow's baleful voice had rung out loud and clear in his head – his blood had pounded and roared in his ears, the air had become thick, oppressive and suffocating and the next thing he knew was that he had given into the frustration and anger he had felt and was holding Rachel by the fragile skin of her neck up against the cold brick wall of the alleyway, his fingers constricting around her throat. But now it was impossible to deny it - the loss of control, the feeling of freedom, of weightlessness, no matter how temporary, had felt fantastic. And that's what troubled him the most. He remembered the softness, the delicacy of Rachel's skin as his touch had forced the blood to rise to the surface – patches of red and purple had blossomed across her shoulders, her neck, her collarbones, to form a masterpiece unlike one he had seen before. And it had been beautiful.

She was changing before his very eyes, more and more with each meeting, and he was dying to witness the next phase of her metamorphosis. The cogs in his head were endlessly turning. He would not force anything upon her, would ask for her consent before unleashing any of his plans – and he knew that she would give it to him willingly. There was hope for her yet. There was time.

/

"Where are you going to go?" Rachel asked Jonathan, taking a step toward him. "Not back to your apartment, surely?"

He flicked his head around and raised his eyebrows. "I don't see any other possibilities," he said.

"The first place they'll look for you is your apartment."

"Then I suppose I'll get caught." He shrugged, a smirk fighting its way onto his face.

Rachel sighed, both irritated and terrified that she was bothered about his personal welfare. Dr. Crane was a highly intelligent and somewhat sensible man. Was he really so eager to be sent back to a padded cell at Arkham? She thought back to several minutes ago, recalling the heady scent of his breath on her face, the way his manic eyes had gleamed with a madness she either could not identify or was too frightened to, the feel of his body crushing her own against the wall, his fingers at her throat – roughly at first, before softening, waning, fading to the tenderness of a caress, his voice low and gentle like that of a lover. She shook her head, blocking out the memories, forcing her mind to return to the present. _Snap out of it, Rachel, _she berated herself.

"I know it isn't much," she began without even considering the implications of her next words. "But if you need somewhere to stay... well." She paused, realising what she was permitting, the gravity of her offer. A wanted man, a convicted felon, sleeping under her roof? It was too late to go back now, both in terms of what she was saying and her feelings toward him. There was no way they could put tonight behind them. She sighed. "I'm not about to watch you get shoved in the back of another police car. There's room at my apartment if you want it."

He stood opposite her with his shirt buttons loose, his hair tousled and a small but genuine smile on his face, looking very much like the man she had woken up to see the morning after the incident at Arkham. And she found herself smiling back at him. "Thank you," he said simply, running a hand through his dark, silky locks. When he lowered it, his fingers brushed the back of her own and she inhaled sharply, involuntarily. A pitter-pattering sound to their left attracted their attention from one another and they both glanced around, realising that the steady, repetitive noises signalled the first spots of rain on the black metal bins.

"Shit," Jonathan muttered, still smiling a little. She caught his eye and they both looked up – the sky was dark and ominous-looking, black streaked with grey and lines of silvery white. For a moment, nothing moved and the silent, black and white world was serene. She measured the time in heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four. By the time she reached five, the heavens had opened and the sky was densely filled with thick raindrops.

"Come on!" Rachel was forced to shout over the thunderous pounding of the rain against every surface that lay out in the open, and together they hurried away from the alleyway in the direction of the bridges which – Rachel thanked every god that she knew – had mercifully been lowered once more. The streets were deserted aside from a few aimless stragglers, all of whom couldn't make out their blurred forms through the sheets of icy rain, did not recognise them or simply did not care enough to cause any trouble. She was soaked to her skin but felt strangely contented as they neared the opposite side of the bridge. It was as though they were the only two people left in the world – no one moved, no one saw, no one cared. She felt like a shadow, slipping between buildings, lithe, devious and completely unseen. They reached the edge of the bridge and Jonathan jumped down first, testing the height and the landing, before holding out his hand to Rachel. She took it and swiftly followed suit, landing nimbly beside him on the asphalt, but when she touched down, she did not let go.

By the time they reached her apartment building, they were both drenched and laughing like children who had spent too long splashing in the puddles in the street. Their fingers remained interlaced as she led the way up the long staircase – the gesture felt so natural that she seemed to have forgotten to let go. She fished her key out of her pocket with her free hand.

"Just here," she murmured as they approached the correct door – she reached out and twisted the key in the lock but, to her surprise, it was already open. "That's strange..."

Jonathan didn't say anything.

As they entered her apartment, something immediately seemed wrong. The curtains were all drawn, the air was cold and an eerie silence filled the empty space that set her nerves on edge. It was pitch black; the darkness felt thicker, more oppressive than usual, as though she would be able to reach out and touch it, grab it if she cared enough to try. Suddenly Jonathan's hand dropped hers and she gasped – the light flickered on, and two men stood in front of her. She had no time to react, to even attempt to fight back; the men, one tall and lithe, the other burly, grabbed her by the arms and forced her head down, holding her in place.

"What-" she began, but the taller man clamped a hand down over her mouth, silencing her cries. Her face felt hot and the room began to spin, her head swimming, and she realised how hard his hand was pressed against her mouth.

"Don't suffocate her!" came Jonathan's voice from somewhere in front of her, but she was doubled over from the force of the men holding her arms so she did not see. The man removed his hand and she pulled in a lungful of air. Their rough fingernails dug into her skin.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded, her voice ragged and breathless. She wrenched partly out of one of the men's grip and raised her head to stare up at Jonathan.

"Shh, now," he said gently, moving closer and stroking her hair back out of her eyes. He gazed into them for a moment and she felt her heart flutter, her stomach fill with butterflies. As she watched, her throat thick with anger and tears, unable to turn individual words into sentences, Jonathan crouched down in front of her and took her hand from one of the men, turning it over, tracing the thin blue veins at her wrist with his fingertips. Her curled her hand into his own and held it tightly, then leant up toward her from where he sat. She closed her eyes impulsively, mechanically, as he did nothing but lightly brush his lips across hers, chaste, so lightly that it could barely have been called a kiss – she breathed him in, committing this moment, however twisted, to memory... and looked down when she felt a pinching sensation at her inner forearm. _A syringe. _Jonathan removed the needle from her vein, sealed it up and pushed it back inside his pocket.

"Just a sedative," he promised, but already his words sounded distant and distorted in Rachel's mind. Her limbs were suddenly as heavy as lead and she went limp as the men released her, lying her down on what she guessed was her own leather sofa. "Go to sleep, Rachel," were the last silky words she heard before she rolled over and succumbed to unconsciousness.

/

**Now is where I like to think it's getting good! Let me know what you think?**


	9. Chapter 9

**DID ANYONE JUST WATCH THE PONDS' DEPARTURE FROM DOCTOR WHO? My laptop is genuinely wet with tears. Oh dear.**

**Anyway, before I get into that and find myself unable to stop, here's chapter 9!**

**/**

When Rachel finally managed to pull herself out of the deep, anesthetised state of sleep that the sedative had forced her into, her limbs and shoulders ached in a bizarre, detached kind of way, and her head felt as though it was full of damp cotton wool. Her eyelids were heavy and, as she sat up, she smelt tobacco and... she sniffed. Chlorine, possibly, disinfectant, something sterile? The scent reminded her of her childhood, of when her parents used to take Rachel and her younger cousins to the big public swimming pool in the city. When she moved, her wet clothes clung to her skin and she shivered – she folded her arms, but something small and solid dug into her skin. She reached inside the charcoal grey suit jacket she wore and pulled out a red cigarette lighter. _Found it_, she thought; she held it in front of her face and flicked the little wheel, watching the flame dance as she exhaled slowly. Then she gasped. She knew exactly who owned the lighter, and she knew who owned the jacket.

She stiffened and hugged her knees, pulling her arms out of the jacket and lowering it to the ground. The air was warm, but the layer of ice that had suddenly formed beneath the surface of her skin was impenetrable. She stared around, her eyes wary and darting as she took in her surroundings. Where on earth was she? She lay in a high, wooden-framed bed in the middle of a room bigger than any bedroom Rachel had ever resided in – the ceiling was high, the parquet floor light and polished, giving off a distinct air of novelty and freshness. It was bright but artificially so, without a single window to be found and dazzlingly white fluorescent lights shining down from every rafter up above. The glossy mahogany wainscoting gave the forest green walls a deep, infinite quality that made her feel inaccessible and insignificant, not to mention very much alone. A full-length mirror faced her, reflecting her pale face, her tired eyes. Unlike the bedroom she remembered at Jonathan's apartment, this room both felt and appeared to be considerably more lived in, what with its cluttered desk, scattered piles of clothing and picture frames lining the walls. One in particular caught her eye. On the bedside table was a faded photograph of a dark-haired male student in full academic graduation regalia, including navy blue mortarboard – a younger Jonathan Crane, she assumed, judging by the striking blue eyes – with a well-built, balding man on one side of him and a slight, youthful-looking blonde woman on the other. Her eyes were wide, almond-shaped and exactly the same astounding shade of blue that Rachel was developing a twisted kind of fondness for. Her fingertips brushed over the glass, the corners of her lips turning up a little at the sight of Jonathan's boyish, untroubled face, his ever-unruly hair, longer than she had ever known it to be, and, as she gazed at the photograph, she began to realise how much had changed since it was taken. There was no denying that the boy in the frame was indeed the man she knew now, but he wasn't, as such, _her _version of him – it was as though he was unfinished, incomplete. The years and his struggle would snatch away that smile and harden his expression soon enough.

She laid back on the soft mattress, pulling her fingers through her damp, straggly hair, and turned onto her side, her clothes still sopping wet. She remembered the rain. She remembered their carefree journey through the streets of Gotham, unobserved, overlooked, disregarded by everyone in sight under the cover of the darkness and the downpour. She remembered the feel of his fingers interlaced with her own and rolled over onto her side, a strange pool of warmth growing in her stomach. The hand that hung down over the edge of the bed found the silken heap that was his jacket and she fumbled with its folds, pulling it to her once more and holding it tightly. And, for some reason, as she inhaled the familiar scent and wound her free arm back into the sleeve, she felt the sting of tears filling her eyes. She wiped them away quickly, berating herself for her irrationality – the sedative must still be in her system, messing with her hormones, she concluded abruptly, before throwing the jacket back onto the bed and standing up, stretching her legs, feeling her throbbing muscles screaming in protest. Her feet were bare – she had evidently kicked off her socks while she slept – and she padded across the wooden floor toward the only door she could see. Needless to say, it was locked from the outside.

She suddenly felt aimless and drained once more, her feet stopped moving and she held on to the door handle, slowly and deliberately sinking to her knees as though it would help aid her escape from this room somehow, the room that seemed to have become her prison. But as she turned and sat with her back against the locked door, a niggling voice in the back of her mind persistently asked the question her conscious mind refused to – _how much do I really want to escape? _She knew Jonathan had to be somewhere nearby. How much distance would she be able to put between herself and him, for how much time could she stay away, before she began craving his voice, his proximity once more? The man was an enigma and it was pointless to pretend that Rachel was not completely fascinated by him, his past, his work and his ways. And now she had yet more questions to ask him. He had brought her here – wherever 'here' was – for a reason, and she would be damned if she did not stick around long enough to find out what that reason was. So she pursed her lips determinedly, settled herself down and prepared for a long and lonely wait. The clock on the wall told her that it had just gone eight in the morning.

She sat and watched as an hour passed. Then another. Then another.

/

Jonathan gazed through the eyepiece of the microscope he was poring over and tried to continue making focused notes, but it was safe to say that his mind was elsewhere that morning. When he and his men had arrived at Arkham's basement the previous night via the secret passageway in the Narrows subway tunnel, carrying an unconscious Rachel Dawes, he hadn't slept a wink; his eyes were tired and his attention span was abnormally dismal, particularly in regards to his work. He sighed. Since meeting Rachel, the chronic insomnia he had suffered during his adolescence had returned with a vengeance – it seemed that recently he had been spending far too much time devoting his thoughts to her, so much so that it was affecting his already dubious mental health. And he knew that, after the events he would make sure occurred today, it was only going to get worse. Today Rachel would tell him everything, and then he would set her on a path that would manipulate and alter the course of her life forever.

He switched off the bright bulb within the microscope, having decided that he may as well stop deluding himself into thinking he was focused enough to work, lit a cigarette and turned to his computer, pressing the 'on' button and drumming his fingers against the desktop as it whirred to life. He removed his glasses, taking in a long, deliberate drag of smoke, and raked a hand through his hair, feeling utterly exhausted, wrung out yet satisfied. His plan had been a success. Rachel was being held captive, imprisoned within the walls of what had once been his domain, his personal territory. And of course, in the beginning she would put up a fight – her fiery personality and strong will would not permit anything less – but soon, she would choose to remain by his side out of choice; he would make sure of it.

Requiring some confirmation of the legitimacy of his educated guesses, Jonathan tapped the end of his cigarette against the ashtray on the desk, pulled up his search engine and keyed in her name. _RACHEL DAWES_, he typed, then hit 'enter'. His eyes widened as he scanned the first two pages of results – they were fairly standard and uninteresting, nothing but the details of court case reports, social networking profiles and the occasional press release from some charity event or other. He gritted his teeth as he gazed upon a certain photograph of Rachel, positively glowing in an elegant, floor-length black gown with a radiant smile on her face, on the arm of the district attorney, Carl Finch. He quickly scrolled on through several more pages, banishing the thought of the simpering older man from his mind, until something else caught his eye. A sepia-toned class photograph depicting a cohort of twenty or so young girls, their faces bright and cheerful, a wide banner reading '_Holy Trinity Parish School, Class of '97'_ hung high above their heads. He picked out the eighteen-year-old Rachel with ease, perched on a bench in the front row, her face free of its usual worry, her grin untroubled. Her long hair was pulled into a French braid by her ear and she wore reading spectacles, both contributing to the fact that she looked every part the studious, diligent schoolgirl.

... Which was precisely why his jaw fell slack and his lips curled into a smile around his cigarette as he returned to his search and curiously clicked on the next link down. An outdated report from the public archives of Gotham's police department filled his screen, a scanned greyscale copy of the _Gotham Times_. There was no headline – the cutting was only a small, filler piece – but phrases such as _dedicated student_, _recreational narcotics _and _multiple offences _immediately jumped out at him. And beside the text, above photographs of two other students, one male and one female, a mug shot of a gaunt, ashen-faced Rachel stared out at him, her hair lank, an eerie half-smile playing around her lips. The report informed him that her reputation as a model Gotham City University student and a generous donation from her parents had saved her from a spell in Blackgate, but Jonathan was past caring. He smiled as he stubbed out his cigarette. She had given him all the ammunition he needed, and she didn't even realise it yet.

He peered out of the window, saw the sun rising over the rooftops and smiled. Perhaps it was time to let her know.

/

Rachel rolled over on the hard, unyielding floor, her muscles aching dully and irrefutably, as she heard the unmistakeable click and turn of a key in a lock somewhere to her left. The noise was loud and grating – her senses had been numb since she woke due to the absence of sound, of natural light, of _anything_ – and she sat bolt upright, her hands in the air, as she prepared to defend herself. She backed herself up against the wall and she felt her hackles rise as the door swung open.

For a moment, neither Rachel nor Jonathan spoke as they stared each other down. Then, to her surprise, still without saying anything, he quietly closed the door behind him and sat down on the floor opposite her, several metres away. He gazed at the skirting board next to her feet, his eyes weary. The room was silent.

Rachel swallowed. "Where are we?" she asked as resentfully as she was able, not meeting his eye.

He looked up at her and gave a small, knowing smile. "Now, that would be telling," he said, with a note of the condescension that his voice had been missing for a while. "What do you remember from last night?"

"Everything," she said blandly and bit her lip. She recalled the sensation of his lips ghosting across hers as her body went limp and dark spots expanded and filled her vision, and her heart fluttered. In that moment, as the world had blurred and faded around her and she had floated into space, he had been the only tangible, touchable, _real _thing within her reach. And when he pulled away and the needle left her arm, with nothing remaining for her to hold on to, she had surrendered to the darkness willingly. It had been an uncomfortable experience, but not an entirely unpleasant one. Reminiscences of _feelings _– the vertigo and wave of head rush that came from being lifted, for example – rather than actual physical occurrences, resurfaced like half-remembered dreams, drifting around her subconscious, and, while her mind could _see _them, it found itself unable to process and make sense of the highly-coloured images. _Lost in translation_.

"Everything..." he repeated slowly, rolling the word around on his tongue. He smirked. "Am I in trouble?" His tone was soft and teasing. Rachel was shocked. How could he possibly be making light of this situation?

"That depends," she told him indignantly, raising her voice a little, her hands trembling slightly as anger bubbled up inside her. "Have you kidnapped me?"

"Rachel, you're supposed to be intelligent," he said, a mocking smile on his face that did nothing to calm her. "I would have thought that was fairly obvious." He shifted his weight and winced as he moved his injured leg out to one side.

"Not necessarily," she retorted sharply. "The term 'kidnapped' implies that I can't just get up and leave."

"Well, you can't," he said plainly, his smile amused and derisive.

Her eyes narrowed, her hands balled into fists, Rachel rose petulantly to her feet and crossed the room so that she faced the door. "Watch me," she snapped, and pulled on the handle. She sighed. To her dismay, she seemed to have missed Jonathan locking the door on his way in. She turned back to him, her lips pressed together in a hard, angry line, and shook her head jadedly as he removed a key from his pocket and waved it in her direction.

"I'm insulted," he teased, his face a disdainful mask of faux shock. "Did you really think I'd make it that easy for you?"

She slowly sank back down against the wall and leaned toward it so that she was facing away from him. What had happened to the man she had encountered in the alleyway the previous night? The man who had wrapped his jacket attentively around her shoulders, who had held her hand as they ran though the rain, who had kissed her so softly, so delicately that she had been left wondering, wanting more? His gentleness had been replaced with arrogance, and Rachel mused over what he could possibly be trying to hide. She had seen him weak, defenceless, gripped by pain, had seen him smile as easily and naturally as his younger counterpart in the photograph at her bedside and been unable to resist smiling back at him. But now, as he smirked mockingly in her direction, a gleam of maliciousness, spite and something else she just couldn't place in his icy blue eyes, she felt not only disgusted, _disappointed_, but compelled to look away.

So she stared at the ground, her heart thudding against her ribcage, and took a deep breath. In a derisorily timid voice, she asked, "What do you want from me?"

And the next thing she knew, Jonathan was beside her, inches away, his eyes searching her own intently. She turned her head away from him, bitter tears stinging her eyes. "Don't be scared," he murmured, gently raising his hand, tilting her chin toward him with his fingertips. "I'm going to help you, Rachel."

A red mist settled over her line of vision. "I don't need your help!" she cried, jolting away from him and jumping to her feet, hating the effect that he was able to have on her. She had been in perfect control of her life, of her destiny, until Jonathan Crane had come along - he had turned her world inside out, and she could no longer tell up from down. "I don't need anyone's help!" she protested as she felt a single traitorous tear roll down her cheek, grabbing the door handle once more and yanking backwards with all her weight, her attempts becoming more and more desperate by the second. She let go and pounded on the wood of the door with her fists, sobbing hard, beating and clawing at the resilient surface until her knuckles and fingernails were sore and bloody. She ached all over but still she persisted until strong arms moved around her, pulling her wrists together behind her back, restraining her from doing any more damage to herself.

"Rachel, stop," he shouted over her wracking sobs, pulling her close to him from behind and holding her still. "Calm down."

Rachel closed her eyes and felt his breath against the back of her neck. Her arms ached and her hands stung all over, but it was as if an emotional dam had broken. Her blood ran cold in her veins as she swallowed the bile that had risen up in her throat. "What are you doing to me?" she murmured acrimoniously, more for her own benefit that Jonathan's. "What have I ever done to you?"

She gasped as he pulled her around to face him, his hands gripping her wrists like manacles, so tightly that she thought he could break through her skin. His eyes were wide, furious and crazed as though he too had been suppressing his anger up until that point. In one impossibly swift and fluid movement, he advanced on her, pushing her backwards until the backs of her knees came into contact with the bed frame. She fell into an awkward sitting position, her legs angled uncomfortably beneath her, as Jonathan transferred Rachel's left wrist across so that he held both of her hands in one of his; he moved his free hand to her throat. She exhaled slowly, conserving the oxygen in her lungs as efficiently as she could, as he held her there, crouching so that he was down at her level and could look her in the eye. Despite the physical advantage he had over her, she suddenly felt misguidedly bold and rose to his challenge, staring into his eyes without fear, like a rabbit caught in under the probing glare of a fox.

"You lied to me, Rachel," he said, his voice low and dangerous, and he violently yanked her hair back, causing the joints in her neck to scream in protest.

She groaned in pain. "I don't-"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." He released his grasp on her hair and wrists suddenly, instead leaning forward and placing a hand on the mattress on either side of her body, holding her captive in his arms without actually touching her. "You're a hypocrite," he spat. "You act so innocent but I know what's really going on, Rachel. You see, I looked you up." He shook his head in mock incredulity, his cruel smirk firmly back in place.

Rachel's eyes widened, her mind processing the potential implications of his words. "You... why?" Her voice shook, her panic evident, but still she felt her body respond to his – she leant upwards, inhaling the sweet, intoxicating perfume of his breath against her lips.

"I had my suspicions, but I had to be sure." He spoke quickly and quietly, an edge of menace constantly present in his voice. "I'm a psychiatrist, Rachel. You pretend your life has always been so perfect, and that you're so _good_, but I saw right through you from the start." He leant down so that they could not possibly be any closer to one another and reached out, the backs of his fingers coming to rest over her heart. She arched her body involuntarily, closing the gap between them entirely, and his other hand moved behind her to the small of her back, holding her up to him. "It's psychology one-oh-one. Your pupils are dilated... your pulse, elevated. You miss feeling like this, don't you Rachel?" he whispered, and she nodded, unable to coordinate any other response. "Still the addict. Still the junkie that you've worked _so hard _to sweep under the carpet."

_Of course he knew_, Rachel's subconscious chastised her bitterly as she forced her tears of shame back below the surface. _You're a terrible actress_.

"Why have you brought me here?" she asked, barely opening her mouth, unable to deny anything he had just said.

He smiled. He tilted his head and leant forward so that he lips brushed her ear. "I'm going to set you free," he whispered, and with that, he released her. She fell back on the bed, letting go of the lungful of air she had been holding in for far too long, and watched as he slammed out of the room without so much as a glance back at her.

/

**Next chapter is where the fun **_**really **_**begins ;) please review! I love all of you and I like to feel as though you kind of like me too :3 see you soon!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey guys! Thanks as always to everyone that's left a review; I honestly appreciate them more than I could ever tell you. Earlier I watched Peacock – my latest Cillian filmography endeavour – and oh em gee, it's a strange film! But another fantastic performance from our favourite sexy Irish actor, he made me cry with his sheer level amazing-ness :o Everyone go watch it! I watched Disco Pigs too. If you enjoy being happy, I recommend steering clear of it. Sob.**

**Also, I'd like to take a moment to apologise for my slow updates. School's been piling on the pressure lately and the work load has been ridiculous.**

**Anyway, on with chapter 10!**

**WARNING: the drug use begins in this chapter. Read on at your own risk. All references to drugs are most definitely for purposes of entertainment, not instruction.**

/

Jonathan didn't lock the door on his way out, and made certain that Rachel had noticed.

For the first phase of his plan, of Rachel's metamorphosis – her release from the shackles of her family, her job and the society she served so meticulously – he would need to set his trap carefully, making sure to cover his tracks. If he lay out his bait too subtly, she would not even notice; too obviously, and she would realise what he was doing and put her long-established self-control into practice. He would have to be thorough, not to mention extremely vigilant. He smiled as he leant against the door to his – or, more recently, Rachel's – bedroom, the door that he had just slammed behind him in his haste to exit, to leave her imagining the possibilities and wanting more than what he had given her. Maybe he would even have some fun and enjoy himself along the way.

Part of him remained furious with Rachel for lying to him in the alleyway the previous night, for playing dumb and painting him out to be the bad guy when her hands were just as dirty as his. He remembered the naive curiosity in her voice when she had asked about what he _really _did for a living and the tone of disgust, of revulsion she had faked when he told her. If there was one thing Jonathan couldn't stand, it was a hypocrite, but there was no way that he could _really _force himself to hate Rachel for it. _Or for anything else, for that matter_, crooned a voice in his head. He sighed. With her strict private Catholic school upbringing and her stringent, rigorous career, he guessed that it was second nature to her to oppose – or, at least, be _seen _to be opposing – anything that could be considered immoral or improper. Drugs – how _awful_! Assisting a wounded, dangerous criminal – the very thought of it! But there was no going back now. He had seen the assistant district attorney's true colours, and soon, she would choose to open her eyes to them willingly, to accept them, to embrace her dark side and drown in it. Her social standing and potentially her sanity were a small price to pay for the freedom he was able to give her; did the former really matter that much? And as for the latter... Jonathan had given his own up long ago. This sacrifice had given him great clarity of mind, a new sense of what morality meant in the modern age and a fresh perspective of the world in general. Sharing that with Rachel topped his current list of priorities, but first, he had to reel her in. It wouldn't take much – he had seen her dwindling control shake in his presence already.

If she refused him, he would never be able to see her again. And the thought of being without Rachel for the rest of his days drove a wedge of ice into his heart that only spurred him on. He couldn't fail. He had gotten in too deep with her now – there was no way that he could return to safe ground. All he could do was tread water for as long as he was able, and support Rachel in the process. He needed her, and soon, she would cry out for him too.

He returned to his makeshift office space at the opposite end of the dark wooden hallway, a smile on his face as he considered what he was about to do, the chain of events his next actions would be sure to trigger. There was a thick manila packet on his desk, addressed to and evidently delivered by one of his men in secret. Jonathan flicked on the overhead light and sat down, leaning forward intently and carefully prising open the padded envelope. He slipped his hand inside and pulled out a rectangular foil package, folded and taped tightly to avoid costly spillages in transit, he guessed. The herby, oily smell began to creep into the air as soon as he sliced through the tape with his fingernails, filling his nostrils and forcing memories of his seditious adolescence to the surface of his mind. At the time it had just been part of a rebellious streak, a defiant and misguided 'screw you' to his stern parents and to society, but now, the perfume of the illicit substance stirred different feelings within him. Marijuana was not his drug of choice, but he knew that Rachel would respond best to familiarity. She had admitted to his face that she had smoked pot in college before – not to mention a host of other substances, if that police report was anything to go by – and so Jonathan decided that this was the most straightforward path to take. As he opened his desk drawer and pulled out packets of filters and rolling papers – part of his emergency kit for when he worked late and exhausted his supply of ready-rolled cigarettes – he idly wondered if Rachel could still remember the thrill the drugs gave her, the pleasant buzz as they worked their way through her body, the euphoria, the heightened sensitivity to touch. _We'll soon find out._ He rolled the marijuana cigarette with practised ease, licking the edge of the rolling paper with a flourish and deftly smoothing down the edge.

He sat back and waited. Time flew past as he lost himself in his thoughts of her. Then he heard the springs of a mattress as they decompressed nearby, and a door banged open.

Pressing the filter end between his lips, Jonathan lit the cigarette and inhaled, the familiar sickly-sweet flavour flooding his mouth. Whorls of smoke curled toward the ceiling and he sat back in his chair, removing his glasses and pulling a hand carelessly through his dark curls. He took another drag and watched as the end of the cigarette glowed before his eyes. Everything was still for a moment. Then he heard loud footsteps.

The door to his office swung open and Rachel strode inside, clearly having realised that he had not locked the bedroom door, with her hands on her hips and an expression of steely determination on her face. His jacket was draped around her shoulders again, he noticed.

"Jonathan, we need to-" She stopped abruptly, her eyes fixed on the cigarette.

He grinned – exactly the reaction he had been hoping for. He pulled in another lungful of smoke and watched her, half-attempting a look of casual misunderstanding. "Is something wrong?" he asked, rising to his feet and walking around the desk. He leant back on it, exhaling slowly, deliberately.

"What are you doing?" she muttered, taking a step toward him, consciously or unconsciously, Jonathan did not know. She breathed in, and he smiled.

"Relaxing," he said smoothly, trying to feign nonchalance, but he could not keep the triumphant grin off his face. "You should try it sometime."

Her eyes were wide and burnt with yearning as she watched him take another drag, her jaw falling slack when he blew a wispy ring of smoke up into the air.

"I..." she began, but she seemed to lose her train of thought, her gaze focused on his hand.

"What is it, Rachel?" he asked, stepping closer to her, his eyes searching her face. The room was hot, the air thick and oppressive, and he reached out, grabbing her wrist with his free hand before she could make any attempt to respond. "What are you doing here anyway?" he murmured, calculatingly exhaling his lungful of smoke above her head, just out of her reach. "I've kidnapped you. Do I really have to escort you back to your room?"

"I don't..." She blinked slowly and shook her head. He looked down at her hand to see that her middle finger was crossed adroitly over her index finger, an unconscious gesture picked up as a psychosomatic habit by many ex-smokers. "What's your game?" she asked, and he wondered if she had meant to say it aloud.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, releasing Rachel's arm so that he could lean back and quickly, subtly pocket the two other marijuana cigarettes he had rolled earlier. He held the door open and gestured into the hallway. "Come on," he commanded as authoritatively as he was able through the foggy, pleasant miasma that had settled over his mind and the smile he simply could not shake off. "You can't stay out here."

"Okay," Rachel whispered, staring down at the floor and hurrying off into the darkness, like a rabbit escaping a fox, her breathing hard and deliberate. She was clearly fighting for control, and she didn't seem to have the upper hand at present. He tapped the grey-green cigarette ash onto the floor, finding himself unable to care about the effect it may have on the carpet, and followed Rachel back toward the bedroom, a gleeful grin adorning his flush face.

/

Rachel couldn't breathe.

Well, physically, she was _able _to breathe, but she fought the reflex with all she was worth, refusing to inhale the sickly-sweet perfume of the drug that filled the air around her. It brought back too many bitter memories, opened too many emotional dams, awoke too many of the demons that she had fought so long and hard to bury. She had spent years journeying through her own personal hell until she reached the light at the other side, surviving spells of community service and even a brief prison sentence during her first year of university. It didn't matter. Those shadows, that dark past... they were behind her now; she had made sure of it. But now, as the herby, mawkish aroma pushed against the barriers she had set up long ago, it took every ounce of self-restraint she had not to rip the cigarette from Jonathan's hand, to allow the smoke to envelop her and permeate her mind. Her mind whirled, and memories of the first time she had ever experienced that particular aroma came tumbling back.

/

_It was Rachel's first year of college. She had never been much of a party animal throughout high school and had vowed to take her last years as a free, unemployed young woman in her stride and stop caring quite so much about her mother's strong moral principle and her entrenched withdrawn attitude. She had realised it was like some sort of ridiculous self-fulfilling prophecy – the more she considered herself a wallflower, an outsider that lurked on the periphery of the crowd, the more she allowed the stereotype to consume her. _But that's in the past_, she repeated resolutely to herself, following the two bubbly fellow law students that had taken her under their wing over the last six weeks as they led the way up the stone steps of an understated townhouse at the edge of campus. Loud music blared from within, and hordes of scantily-clad young adults stumbled around in varying states of inebriation, babbling and clinging to one another's arms. The sky was dark, but the night was undulating with life. Rachel grinned._

_An hour later, she stood at the edge of the shag pile designated dance floor area, quite alone, sipping her third vodka lemonade and checking her watch apprehensively. It was probably time for her to get going – she had two lectures the next morning and she knew that professors could tell with practised ease which of their students were nursing hangovers. She sighed and swallowed down what was left of her drink, but before she could go to leave, a hand caught her wrist._

"_Leaving so soon?" asked a smooth voice, and she turned. She recognised the guy that stood before her from one of her Latin terminology lectures, but failed to match a name to his classically handsome face – he was tall with sandy hair and a charming, infectious smile. Not her usual type, but the way in which his ochre eyes gleamed as he watched her reaction sent a whirlwind of butterflies fluttering around in her stomach. "It's Rachel, right?"_

_She laughed, her nervous getting the better of her, but to her relief, his smile only widened. "Uh, yeah, that's me." She shrugged, taking a sip from her already-empty glass._

_He nodded and bit his lip ruefully."You're not going, are you?" he asked, looking around._

"_Well..."_

"_Come outside," he invited her, touching her arm gently. "For some... fresh air?"_

_She had been leaning toward him as though gravity had shifted – she could smell his cologne in the air combined with cheap alcohol and a sickly-sweet scent that she knew but could not place._

_Grinning stupidly like a child on Christmas morning, Rachel gave an enthusiastic nod. "Okay," she said, and he smiled as he took her arm and led her through the double glass doors and out into the garden._

_Almost as soon as the chilly air found its way into her lungs, it was replaced by an almost overpowering herby smell that matched the one she had detected on the breath of her mysterious escort. He took her hand gently, measuring her reaction, and pulled her into a circle of students huddled near the wooden fence that looked warmly at her as she faced them. She smiled back, but suddenly felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck._

"_Hey James," said a skeletally thin girl with white-blonde hair and too many ear piercings for Rachel to count at short notice. She held a green-tinged cigarette. "Who's this?"_

"_Meet Rachel, guys," he said, his hand moving to the small of her back and nudging her forward. "She's a friend of mine."_

_Rachel murmured 'hello's in the general direction of the group and turned back to James, who held up another cigarette. Whorls of smoke curled upward toward the cloudless night sky as she watched, her jaw slack. He stepped toward her, his enchanting smile memorising, and, before she could protest, placed the filter end of the cigarette between her lips. She adjusted her position, alarm bells ringing in her head and her heart thumping in her chest, and attempted to back away, but he pulled her close and murmured, "Just breathe."_

/

She walked purposefully back to the bedroom, mentally chastising herself for even leaving it at all moments ago and thus opening this can of worms, concentrating hard on every step she took, on the pattern of her breathing, on the uneven grain of the parquet floor, on _anything _that successfully kept her mind away from Jonathan and the marijuana cigarette he held to his lips. She tried to shut the door behind her but quickly realised that he was there – he stepped in past her and took the handle himself, reaching forward and shutting it firmly. Rachel froze, her back against the door, as it clicked to a close. He didn't move his hand away from the handle. Instead, his other hand went to rest on the wood near Rachel's shoulder. With one of his hands on either side of her, she was trapped, a prisoner within his arms. His eyes widened and he bit his lip, his high cheekbones flushed with red. She leant back against the door, her eyes never leaving his, and found herself tracing his long eyelashes, not hidden behind his glasses as they usually were, his strong jaw, the gentle curve of his lips with her gaze. The scent of the drug lingered on his breath and she gasped, her muscles tensing defensively. Their faces were inches apart, and all she could do was breathe him in.

"Relax," he murmured, a smile on his face, as he raised the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag, his unusually warm crystal blue eyes closing gradually, blissfully, as he did so. His expression was completely free of its usual stress and careful restraint, and she couldn't help but notice how closely he resembled the young boy he once was in the picture at her bedside. He was not just conventionally good-looking – although she had not cared to admit it before, his face possessed an ethereal kind of perfection that rendered her speechless, particularly at such close proximity.

Her jaw fell slack as he lowered the cigarette once more and, to her surprise, gently cupped her cheek with his hand. In a swift movement, he leaned in as if he would kiss her, but instead he hesitated, pausing when their lips were a mere centimetre apart. Then he exhaled slowly, guardedly, as though he was afraid of frightening her, and gently breathed the thick grey smoke into her mouth. Jonathan was everywhere and the walls closed in around her as she wrestled with her conscience and then decided, at long last, that it was senseless to continue fighting a losing battle. She inhaled, pulling the smoke into her lungs so deeply that it burned her chest, relishing the sweet, acrid taste as it passed her lips. Her mind swam pleasantly and she leant her head back against the wood of the door, smiling helplessly up at the ceiling.

"Better?" she heard Jonathan ask, and she stared at him intently, wanting so desperately to respond but not knowing precisely what to say. So instead she remained silent, cocking her head to the side and exhaling what was left of the wispy smoke. Without being asked, he lifted the cigarette to her lips and held it there as she took a drag, hesitantly at first, then with more fervour. Then he turned it in his fingers and pulled in a lungful himself, his eyes never leaving hers, watching with notes of anticipation, pride and something else that she could not place. She bit her lip, suddenly very aware of how close they stood to one another, and her skin tingled with electricity. Jonathan let her take another willing drag then ashed the cigarette filter – all that remained – against the wall. Rachel exhaled slowly, unable to mask her disappointment. Was he really closing the gateway so soon when she had bottled her impulses and waited so long for the opportunity to reopen it again?

He stepped backward, freeing her from his grasp, and pulled a lighter from his pocket. She stood, her limbs suddenly heavy and dense, watching him with a smile as he spun charmingly around the room, leaning down and setting aflame the wicks of several candles she had failed to notice before on every available surface. He sat down on the bed, pulled his suit jacket off, rolled up his white shirt sleeves and lit another cigarette that he had dug out of his pocket with the lighter. Her mouth fell open again as she observed his uncharacteristic nonchalance.

"What's wrong?" he asked gently, brightly, raking a hand through his hair and taking a long drag. "Come on, Rachel. Just relax."

Without considering the implications of her actions, her thoughts suddenly taking an atypically devious turn, she pulled her hair down out of its ponytail and shook it out, then flicked the light switch to the 'off' position with her hand. The room was thrown into semi-darkness, the shadows of the objects around her blurred and iridescent from the light of the candles, and she crossed the floor to stand beside the bed, gently trailing her fingertips down Jonathan's arm until they reached his hand. He passed her the cigarette wordlessly, his eyes wide, and she placed the filter between her lips, inhaling deeply. She breathed in until the smoke rendered her vision hazy and stung the back of her throat, then gently leant forward, surprising even herself when she rested her hands on the mattress either side of him and, repeating his earlier gesture, slowly breathed the perfumed smoke into his mouth. He closed his eyes, drawing it in, his face smooth, his lips curved into an amused smile. When he reopened them, she swallowed hard – they were clouded with lust, and once again, she felt like she had that night at her first college party. _Like a rabbit caught in the headlights._

/

**Chapter eleven will be up soon! Who's having fun yet? ;)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Well, you've worn me down. I wasn't going to post this chapter quite yet as I like to have at least two further chapters written before I upload one, so to make up for it you're going to have to wait a little while for the next chapter. But you don't mind, right? As always, thank you all for your kind reviews! You know who you are. If you're not one of those people, er, what are you doing with your life?! Review me please!**

**Right, here goes nothing.**

**WARNING – THIS CHAPTER HAS A BIG FAT M-RATING!**

**/**

For a moment they did nothing but stare at one another. Rachel drank in Jonathan's tousled hair, his heat-flushed cheeks, his crystal blue eyes that were intense and hazy with drugs and a raw, animalistic desire she had never seen before that both thrilled and terrified her. Her mind whirled, her breath hitching in her throat then slowing to a pace identical to that of the man inches away from her – suddenly a familiar wave of vertigo crashed down over her and her centre of gravity shifted; her right wrist gave way and she rolled onto the mattress, falling on her back and allowing an irrepressible giggle to escape her lips in response to her own clumsiness. Jonathan kicked off his shoes and passed the cigarette to Rachel, who accepted it eagerly between her shaking fingers and sucked in a lungful of smoke, the sweet, satisfying taste of the drug permeating her taste buds and leaving her hungry for more. He moved back so that they were level and turned to face her, eyeing her hand, his heated gaze trailing up her neck to her lips. She smiled and leant upward, holding the cigarette to his lips and watching his features shift as he inhaled, holding the smoke in his lungs for an infinite second. He reached across her so suddenly that she started, dropping her hand and letting the cigarette fall to the floor beside the bed. A clear-headed Rachel would have thanked her lucky stars that the parquet flooring was laminate, but at that moment, any kind of rational thought she may have once possessed had evaporated from her mind, along with her already dwindling self-control. Jonathan's hand came to rest by her waist, his fingers clasping the bed sheet, and, with more tenderness than she had ever known him to show, he pushed her long, dark hair back from her face. Then slowly, maddeningly so, with the unhurried composure of an artist creating a masterpiece, he leaned in and captured her lips with his own.

He tasted like lust and perfumed smoke, shadows and sin, all rolled together into one potent and highly intoxicating cocktail. Choosing to forget about the incident in which he had sedated her, Rachel decided to consider _this _their first kiss – despite the heady sense of weightlessness that had taken hold of her body and the spinning, swirling sensation she felt in her head, as she breathed him in, the world fell into a satisfying, harmonious state of equilibrium. She sighed, her lips parting, and he used this as an opportunity to deepen the kiss; Rachel lay back on the bed, feeling his hand move to the small of her back as he crushed his lips against hers, their tongues moving together in a fervent dance, and she wound her arms upwards around his neck, her fingers tangling in his dark curls, holding him to her. His movements were slow and gentle as though he was afraid to push her too far in too short an amount of time; regardless of the heat in the room, there was still something chaste and careful about the way in which he kissed her. _And that won't do at all_, she thought wickedly, her mind warped, her reactions altered and her senses electrified by their careless drug consumption. She had already broken the majority of her deep-rooted moral rules, her personal principles – where was the harm in bending one more?

She relaxed into the mattress, pulling him down with her by the collar of his white shirt, and broke their kiss, letting her head fall back into contact with the bed. Jonathan chuckled once, a low, guttural sound, then brought his lips down to hers again, and she felt him gently sweep the tip of his tongue across the soft curve of her mouth. She sighed, reciprocating his affection by widening the gap between her lips, allowing him to intensify the kiss further; her hands moved down to his waist and lingered at the small of his back for a moment before deftly untucking his shirt. Her fingertips brushed against his skin and the electricity that passed between them was almost tangible, crackling through the air like a current. Liquid heat pooled in her stomach as his lips slipped from her mouth to her jaw, her neck, and she inhaled sharply, her breath coming more and more raggedly as the seconds passed. He slowly trailed a sprinkling of soft kisses across her skin and she grinned at the ceiling in response to the warm, lingering sensation they left, drawing her hands back toward her body and moving them to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, but without warning, Jonathan took hold of her wrists, his own hands forming tight manacles around them, and pinned them down to the mattress above her head, imprisoning her in his arms.

"Somebody's in a hurry," he murmured against her neck, and she cried out – he bit down on the sensitive skin at her throat and instantly soothed the sting with his tongue. The realisation that it would bruise by the morning sent a shock of excitement through her and her body arched against his, craving his proximity, his intoxicating touch. Rachel had never known desire like this. It filled her body, saturating every cell of her mind and setting alight to every nerve ending in her skin, forcing her to draw him as close as was physically possible. It was time to stop pretending; she wanted him, more than she had ever wanted anyone else before.

"You're a tease," she breathed, taking advantage of his temporarily lowered defences and surging forward, kissing him ardently, fighting for dominance. And for a moment he let her have it. He released her wrists - whether consciously or unconsciously, Rachel had no idea – enabling her to wrap her arms around his neck, curling his raven hair around her fingers. She remembered that night at his apartment when she had carried out that same insignificant little action in her inebriated state and wondered why it meant something so much more important now. As soon as she recalled the memory, it began to slip away again, still present but on the periphery, far away enough for the image to be just out of her reach.

A wave of dizziness came over her and she closed her eyes, attempting to shake it off – she had forgotten how potent the effects of smoking the hallucinogen in question could be. She froze, rubbing her temple and slowing her breathing.

"Are... are you okay?" Jonathan asked, his voice coarse, raking a hand through his dishevelled hair and sitting up straight.

She kept her eyes shut and inhaled deeply. A second passed. Two seconds. Three. Then she looked up. To her relief the room had stopped spinning, and Jonathan was watching her, his lips parted and swollen, his eyes incandescent with longing. His expression was dark and shamelessly lustful and he bit his lip as she gazed at him, posing a challenge, demanding, _needing _more.

The heat of that glare was all it took.

She leaned forward and clasped his face between her hands, bringing her lips to his and swinging her leg across so that she knelt over him, straddling his lap, her cold fingers burning against the warmth of his flush cheeks. She felt his hands on her back, dipping tauntingly beneath the waistband of her skirt, and her heart fluttered against her ribcage like a trapped bird. He tilted his head to the side and Rachel made yet another wild bid for control, grinding her body closer to his and nuzzling his neck, inhaling the scent of cologne, marijuana and testosterone that clung to him. He sighed with satisfaction as she did so, one hand coming to rest in her hair, looping and tangling it around his fingers. She traced the line of his neck with her lips, slowly, torturously, nipping at his throat with her teeth when she located his pulse point. This earned an encouraging groan from Jonathan who, in response to her fervour, yanked down on her hair and pulled her mouth back up to his.

"Since when did Gotham's princess like it rough?" he breathed wryly against her lips, drawing her close and kissing her with a practised ease. She didn't feel the need to reply; instead, she waited for a tender moment in which their tongues entwined and she felt him smiling and bit down hard on his lip. A coppery taste filled her mouth and he pulled away for a moment, staring heatedly at her with a look of indignation on his face. A million silent insults were exchanged before, smiling ruefully, Rachel bent her neck forward and kissed him gently for an infinite moment. He stilled beneath her, his hands slipping over her skin, his eyes coming to a gradual close, then turned over on to his side, pulling her with him and responding to her kiss as though he were a dying man in urgent need of oxygen. Her trembling hands went to his shirt and she fumbled with his buttons until it hung open, exposing the hard, flat planes of his stomach and abdominal muscles, and she rested her hands on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath his skin. He breathed deeply and she raised her arms above her head, her fingertips brushing against the headboard, as he pulled up the hem of her light sweater and carefully tugged it off of her, followed swiftly by her now-crumpled pinstriped shirt. She lifted her head and shook out her tousled hair, allowing it to fall back against her bare shoulders just as he returned his attention to her neck once more, caressing her skin with his lips and teeth, biting down every now and then and causing her to gasp. He stroked her sides with his hands, rubbing small circles into her hip bones with his thumbs, then moved his head down and began planting a series of tender, lingering kisses along an imaginary line down the centre of her flat stomach, pausing every so often as if attempting to commit every detail of the sensation and the experience to memory, despite the hazy filter set down by the drugs. His fingers played with the waistband of her pencil skirt before he began to languidly tug it down her legs, inch by inch, until she was left lying on the mattress, her eyes wide, her drug-addled brain swirling pleasantly, in nothing but her pale pink matching underwear.

Recollections of a long-forgotten memory, a half-remembered dream, flickered in and out of her inebriated mind – they depicted herself and Jonathan, barely clothed, as they were now, bathed in the afterglow of the previous night, with imperturbable smiles on their faces and their arms around one another. A dream she'd had not long ago as she slept on the sofa in her apartment, that night after the incident at the monorail. Had it really been some kind of premonition? It had only been two or three days, but already she could barely recall the smell of her home, the view from its window, the sense of pride and security she felt when she relaxed within it, and, for some reason, this didn't bother her in the slightest. Her grip on reality was slipping away. What was Jonathan Crane doing to her?

She looked up, her chest heaving, and watched as he scooted further down the bed then stood up at the foot of it, shrugging out of his shirt and tossing it onto the floor. She leant upwards on her forearms, gazing at him from her position of inferiority, but, for the first time since they had met, she truly felt as though Jonathan was her equal. His lip was cut, the alabaster skin of his neck was angry and red, his pupils were dilated with lust, and both her ego and her heart swelled at the realisation that it was _her _that had had this effect on him and nobody else. Face to face, skin to skin, Rachel knew that, in that moment, Jonathan wanted her just as much as she wanted him. Her body hummed with desire and, soon enough, she would be completely and utterly unable to control herself. She longed not just to touch him, but to find some sort of release, an emotional escape, to unleash every frustration she had ever felt toward him in a language that they were both able to comprehend. She wanted him but she blamed him, she lusted for him but she was repulsed by him, she loved him but she hated him all at the same time. Jonathan himself was like a drug, a narcotic formulated and tailored specifically to break her in whichever way would cause the most damage, but still, she longed for an elusive hit. Did that make Rachel crazy, a masochist... or simply an addict?

"Come here," she murmured, reaching her hand out toward him and allowing him to pull her back up onto her knees. Rachel fanned out her fingers and moved them across his abdomen, letting the tips of her nails bite into his skin and leave a network of little red lines, then continued downwards; she became aware of his own growing arousal as she tentatively reached the zipper of his trousers and pulled down on it, helping to free him of the stifling grey material. He kicked them off when they neared his ankles and advanced on her, forcing her down and back against the headboard as he silenced her moans with his lips. She felt his elegant fingers knot themselves in her dark locks and moved her own to his back, touching and cataloguing the contours of his bones, his muscles, _everything _that was within her reach as he cosseted her with his mouth, his breath hot and drug-laced against her sweat-slickened skin. He eyed her evocatively as he kissed her collarbones and she followed his unspoken demand, reaching behind her back and unhooking the clasp on her bra before slipping it off and letting it fall to the floor. She felt her usual blush return to her cheeks as Jonathan caressed her body from head to toe with his eyes, then he kissed her with a new sense of urgency and she threw her head back against the comforter.

"Fuck," she moaned when she felt his rough hands slide into her satin briefs; one moved around to cup her bottom while the other sought out her most sensitive flesh. When he found it she gasped, exhaling a sharp breath of air and tangling her fingers in his curls, clutching him to her, praying she had the strength to hold him prisoner here forever. She could feel him smiling with satisfaction as he kissed her, muffling her sounds of pleasure, his skilled fingers delving in, teasing her silken folds, slowly but thoroughly driving her insane with their dexterity. Molten heat churned within her lower stomach and her hips ground upward, meeting and matching his movements with her own as she writhed beneath him. She cried out once more as he nipped at the skin at her throat, sweeping his tongue across the mark immediately and replacing the pain he had caused with pure, carnal pleasure. She sucked in another breath as his fingers inched further into her, triggering a wave of ecstasy unlike any she had known before. Turning her head, she crushed her lips to his, partially by means of silencing her cries, and he responded with more enthusiasm than ever, plundering her mouth with his lips, his teeth, his tongue, until she was short of breath. She tasted copper again as he withdrew his hands from her underwear and removed it completely, pulling it down her legs and discarding it somewhere to their right. She closed her eyes, attempting half-heartedly to regulate her pulse; when she reopened them, Jonathan faced her, his own eyes posing a challenge but not seeking permission. For the first time they saw each other naked, physically defenceless, vulnerable in every sense of the word. She counted her heartbeats. Two. Four. Six. Then Jonathan was everywhere again, pressed against her skin, suffocating and stifling her to the point of no return.

After a moment's silent hesitation, he pushed Rachel's knees apart and slowly, deliberately lowered himself into her, stilling completely when their hips aligned to give her a chance to adjust physically to his presence. Her breath hitched and she bit down on her lip so hard that she drew blood to the surface in order to stop herself from screaming out in ecstasy – her lack of knowledge as to their current location left her reluctant, despite the drug's ability to remove one's inhibitions, to make a great deal of noise when there could easily be people nearby. But as he pulled out, drove back in again and began to build up a steady pace, her disinclination started to involuntarily melt away. She arched her hips upward to match his rhythm and cried out his name, running her fingers through his hair and moving her leg so that she could wrap it around his waist, drawing them ever closer. His breath came in short, ragged bursts against her neck, and his long, dark eyelashes fluttered alongside the skin of her cheek. Pressure mounted up in her lower stomach, the pool of heat within her deepening and deepening until it reached a point where she felt as though she could drown in it. The sides caved in, the edges distorted and black spots danced across Rachel's vision – her muscles contracted around him and the molten warmth at her core became a supernova, pushing her off the knife edge she had been balancing on and throwing her into the abyss. Jonathan murmured her name in her ear like some sort of prayer to a revered goddess as he quickly followed suit, collapsing atop her yet still managing to support all of his own weight. Rachel felt utterly sated and wrung out as he rested his head against her chest, placing one more enduring kiss at her throat before letting out a husky chuckle.

"Well," he breathed as she stroked his hair between her fingers. "I think we might have to do that again."

She laughed wearily and sighed. "We might."

And with that, Jonathan rolled to one side, threw an arm around Rachel's shoulders and tugged the bedspread up over them, tightening his hold of her and pulling her close to his chest. For a moment she stared into his eyes in wonder, not sure whether to believe the reality of what had just happened. But then her body began to protest, her eyelids drooped to a close and she floated out into an ocean of bliss.

/

**THAT WAS SO FAR OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE IT WAS INSANE.**

**If that isn't an excuse to make you all review, I really don't know what is ;) see you soon (well, soon-ish) for chapter twelve!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hey guys! As always, thank you to all those people that left me a review. I needed a bit of reassurance after that last chapter, and I'm so so glad you enjoyed it... or, at least, didn't hate it too much. Now who's ready for a bit of morning-after awkwardness? I am!**

**On with chapter 12!**

**/**

Upon opening his eyes, Jonathan had to spend a moment lying still, breathing slowly and staring up at the plain off-white ceiling in order to force his vision back into focus. The room was almost pitch black – every single candle had burnt out apart from the one at his bedside that flickered on determinedly – and the air was thick and oppressive. He swallowed and went to kick off the heavy bedspread, but he stopped himself when he realised that in doing so he would disturb a certain dark-haired sleeping beauty whose breath he could feel coming slowly, evenly against his skin. He looked down at Rachel. She lay against his arm, which seemed to have moved around her during the night, and her cheek rested against his chest, her own arm draped across his waist. He shifted slightly and tightened his hold on her, turning to the side without even considering his actions and pulling her close. The corners of her lips turned up slightly and she groaned, flexing her fingers like a drowsy infant would, her nails gently biting into his skin.

"Go back to sleep," he murmured into her hair, praying for her to fall unconscious once more and wake later on in the best and least hostile mood possible. It was imperative that she was reasonable today.

She moaned again, causing hazy but somehow almost tangible memories to resurface and swim in his mind, then nodded in consent and relaxed once more. Her breathing became steady once more, and he exhaled slowly, content that she was completely asleep. As he lay there, involuntarily rubbing small circles into Rachel's side with his thumb, his thoughts returned to the previous night, and a fresh, electric bolt of desire hummed through his body in response. He glanced down at the sleeping girl beside him and bit his lip in satisfaction as he carefully brushed the fingertips of his free hand across the purpling bruise at her throat, so gently that there was no way it would disturb her, the dark shades bold against her pale skin and punctuated by the indented marks left by his own teeth. He knew that there would be identical marks around his own neck, given to him by a similarly frenzied and drug-fuelled Rachel, and he leant his head down against hers on the pillow, a possessiveness he had never known before coursing through him; he noticed that her skin was hot, uncomfortably so, and he frowned.

"Rachel," he whispered, moving his hand to her forehead and pushing loose strands of her hair back from her clammy face.

"Mmm?" she groaned quietly, her eyes closed as she tiled her face up toward him.

"You're burning up," he told her, repeating his own words from that early morning in his apartment after that fateful night, after the incident which had taken place at the asylum that, to Jonathan, felt like a lifetime ago. Since then, his world had been turned upside down by the girl that lay beside him and, despite his logical, straightforward, analytical brain, he found it impossible to even begin to order, count or categorise the number of things that had changed between them. That night, the first night when an inebriated, tearful Rachel had fallen asleep in his arms, had been bittersweet, resentful, tinged with regret and just about as far from his idea of 'romantic' as any experience was capable of being. But now, as they lay together, tangled up in the bed sheets, their bare skin touching, their legs crossed over one another as though they were a pair of lovers, he wanted nothing more than to hold onto her forever.

_**Lay off, you're making me gag.**_

He swallowed hard. It couldn't be... he had repressed the taunting voice of the Scarecrow for so long, buried the malicious secondary half of his fragmented personality inescapably deep and built it a mental prison, forced it so far down below the surface of his consciousness that he had finally started to believe he would never hear from it again. _I should be so lucky_.

_**Yeah, you should, **_it retorted bitterly. _**You can dream. You can't get rid of me that easily.**_

It could only be the drugs that had brought on this relapse of his mental condition. He hadn't used anything that could be considered recreational for years. While there was a time near the end of his high school career during which he had been a regular user, turning to cheap, low-quality narcotics as a means of escape, he had managed to avoid taking anything that could be harmful or testing any of his own compounds on himself throughout his adulthood – mainly this was because he preferred not to get his hands dirty when he had access to plenty of unsuspecting and expendable volunteers, but he was also dubious about testing the boundaries of his already volatile mental health. He really hadn't been acting sensibly when he had pulled in that first lungful of perfumed smoke the previous night, hadn't given a second thought to the consequences of his actions, hadn't considered what could happen to _him – _all he had been thinking of was Rachel.

_**And wasn't she glorious?**_ Scarecrow asked, a smirk clear in his voice. _**Didn't you love it? Watching her come apart in front of us, giving herself to you?**_

He didn't rise to the taunt. Instead, he sat up, releasing her from his hold, and pushed the sheets back off of them until they rested down around their hips – while he had replaced his underwear before falling asleep, he recalled that she had not, and knew she would prefer to preserve her modesty slightly - earning a sigh from Rachel and a blissful feeling of freedom as the comparatively cool air came into contact with his skin. He lay back and rolled toward the centre of the bed to come face to face with her – her eyes were wide and did not meet his, even when he lifted his hand and brought the backs of his knuckles gently across her cheekbone.

"Morning," he murmured.

A spectrum of emotions flitted across Rachel's pale face. First came a small smile of contentment, then she bit her lip and her forehead wrinkled with worry. Then came regret, tinged with... was that fear? Fear of what? Fear of him? Or fear of what she felt? She didn't speak. She opened her mouth, but words seemed to fail her.

"How do you feel?" he asked, unsure himself as to what aspect of her psyche he was referring to.

"I'm not sure." Her voice was hoarse and thick with sleep. He watched as she swallowed, her eyes growing to the size of dinner plates, and opened her mouth, her breathing suddenly shallow. A look of horror came onto her face, and Jonathan knew instantly what was wrong. He jumped out of bed, helped her to her feet as quickly as he could and led her out of the bedroom to the bathroom next door, where she dropped to her knees and was promptly sick into the toilet bowl, her hands gripping the porcelain, her face damp with cold sweat. He crouched beside her and held her dark hair back, rubbing her shoulder soothingly as she emptied the contents of her stomach then jadedly pulled herself into a slumped sitting position. She leant her head back against the cool tiled wall and gasped as she looked down at her body, pulling her knees up to her chest as if she had only just realised that she was not clothed. Her cheeks flushed pink.

"Oh god," she groaned, covering her mouth with her hand.

He chuckled once and rose to his feet, pulling down his own terrycloth bath robe from the hook on the back of the door and passing it to her. She nodded in thanks, her gaze fixed on the floor, and draped it across her shoulders, tying the belt in a loose bow at her hip.

"Haven't felt _these _effects in a while," she muttered for what felt more like her own benefit than his. She leant gingerly up to the sink and pulled down a bottle of mouthwash, taking a large glug of the pungent green liquid into her mouth and swilling it around before spitting it out. Her eyebrows pulled together and she eyed the bottle cynically as she replaced it, a bitter expression on her face.

"Since your second year of college, right?" He kept his expression smooth, his tone neither berating nor accusative but inquisitive. She stared at him, eyes wary.

_**She's scared. Good. As she should be. **_Jonathan ignored the gloating voice in his head. "I did say I looked you up," he reminded her, settling against the opposite wall and finding himself having to fight back a smile. "I don't like to take a hostage without doing my research."

"Oh, of course," she retorted scathingly, her eyes narrowed.

"You did the same thing for me."

She didn't flinch. "That was different. You're a criminal."

"And you're not?" He laughed, genuinely amused by Rachel's unwavering insincerity and sense of self-righteousness – ever the level-headed lawyer she had trained all her life to become, ever the professional, always fighting for the moral high ground. How far would he have to push her in order to make her realise that she had already lost it completely in his eyes? The last forty-eight hours had taught him that they were more similar than he could ever have dreamed. His own depravity was something that he had personally come to terms with long ago and gone on to revel in, to learn to embrace. Why couldn't Rachel do the same thing? _**She'll learn**_, Scarecrow mused, pushing past Jonathan's momentarily lowered defences and into the forefront of his subconscious that was still cloudy after the previous night. _**She'll get over herself soon enough... when she realises she's just as bad as the rest of us.**_

Rachel swallowed and folded her arms across her chest. "I _was_. That's the difference."

Her words were empty, cold and meaningless, and her voice trembled as though she was having difficulty believing them herself. Jonathan didn't fall for them for a second. He moved towards her, his hand coming to rest on her knee. He felt her shudder beneath his touch, despite her efforts to suppress it. "What was last night then, Rachel? A relapse?" He laughed blackly.

"I never said that," she whispered, and her voice cracked.

He decided to take advantage of her stunned silence and leant forward so that they were inches apart, snaking an arm around her slight waist inside the cloth robe she wore so that his hand rested on the small of her back. She didn't pull away when he brought his lips down to her neck, leaving a deliberate, torturously slow trail of kisses down the line between her earlobe and her trembling pulse point. "Was it a moment of weakness?" he murmured against her ivory skin, and he felt her shiver.

"I don't..." she began, but broke off and inhaled sharply as he changed tack, moving to shower kisses across her collarbones, her shoulders, grazing her throat with his teeth, drawing a moan from her lips. Her hand was fisted at his chest, and she seemed to simultaneously be attempting to push him away and pull him closer. _**She doesn't know what she wants, **_Scarecrow taunted, his voice brimming with excitement. _**Make the decision for her. **_When he looked up, her lips were parted, her pupils dilated with anticipation.

"Do you regret what happened?" he asked, his eyes boring into hers, the fearful yet wholly exhilarated way in which she bit her lip sending a thrill of arousal through his body. She sighed as he withdrew his hand and trailed it calculatingly along her thigh, his fingers dipping languidly above the hem of the robe.

"No," she said, and she held onto his wrist, stopping his hand from travelling any further. Her eyes were burning, but remained somewhat subdued – that ever-present thread of control was still firmly in place, despite his efforts. "I don't regret what happened," she murmured, melting closer to him. "But it was wrong."

"Why?" He took both of her hands in his. "Why was it wrong? What's wrong with letting go and handing control over to someone else? Why can't you just listening to your senses?"

"I've got to be in control," she offered by way of uneasy explanation. "Since... what happened in college... I can't let myself spiral out of control like that again. I swore that I wouldn't." She sighed and looked right at him, her eyes burning as though she could suddenly read and unravel the very fabric of his soul. "Do you know where they found me?" she asked, her voice laced with a trepidation he had never heard there so potently before. "The day of my first arrest, do you know where they found me?"

He didn't answer. She leant closer gently so that their noses were touching, and he found that she smelt deliciously of perfumed smoke, perspiration and his own cologne, a combination which thrilled his senses. An infinite moment passed, then the silence that had risen up like a thick, repressive wall between them was broken as Rachel breathed in sharply and glanced down, her eyes wide. Jonathan followed suit, his eyebrows pulling together as he spotted what seemed to be causing her distress – whether consciously or not, he was unsure, Rachel had balled the fingers of her left hand, her free hand, into a tight fist with such fervent determination that her nails had broken through the skin of her palm, and a dark trickle of blood now threatened to leak down onto her leg.

"Rachel," he tried to reason with her, attempting to take her hand.

She ignored him, shaking her head, pulling her bleeding hand out of his reach and in toward her chest. "Do you know where they found me, Jonathan?" she murmured, her eyes fixed on his once more.

"No," he said, hoping to placate her, imploring her to let go of the emotions that were clearly holding her in chains.

"Lying in a ditch at the side of the street, completely paralytic, so _off my head _on the drugs that I didn't know where I was or how I'd come to be there," she finished, a wistful half-smile on her face that seemed so at odds with the subject matter to which she was referring that he had to suppress a perplexed laugh. For a moment, as they stared one another down, they both reverted back to their old ways, the habits of a time long passed – he was a doctor, she an addict, and analysing her came easily to him. She was an open book. Her behaviour over the last twelve hours, the way in which her eyes widened and burnt with a morbid fascination when she had seen the cigarette in his hand the previous night and did a similar thing as she recalled her past experiences now, the bitter, unmistakeable hint of anguish behind her words when she mentioned the state she had found herself in after that _particular _experience in college. Her tone was similar to that of a person reflecting on being deceived by a best friend – mildly understanding but predominantly resentful – and he supposed that was exactly how Rachel felt; betrayed by that which had protected and comforted her so fully and for so long.

She shuddered, dropping her pensive gaze to the tiled floor, and her head came to rest on his shoulder. "I can't let that happen again. I just can't."

"Rachel, I'm not going to let that happen to you," he told her, placing his hands on her forearms and turning her around to face him head-on. "I promise you, if you stay here with me, I'll never let that happen."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he had said too much. Her brow furrowed and she cocked her head, taken aback, her eyes glinting with traces of fear. "_If _I stay here?" she repeated, confused. She hesitated. "Are... are you saying I have a choice?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, piecing his argument together in his head. "You can stay or you can go," he clarified quietly, pinching the bridge of his noses between his thumb and forefinger and reopening his eyes. _**Tell her the truth.**_ He sighed. "But I want you to stay here with me."

She eyed him warily, her expression a mixture of trepidation and disbelief that, in any other situation, he probably would have found rather amusing. "What are you offering?" she asked, her voice low, and he smiled. _**Told you this one's no idiot, Johnny, **_Scarecrow gloated gleefully. _**Now give it to her straight. Make her stay. She's ours.**_

He pursed his lips, weighing the words on his tongue for a moment. "A job," he decided on finally. "A job, here, with me."

"A job involving what?" she asked instantly, her eyebrows raised, physically cringing back slightly, despite his hold on her hand with both of his own, as though she were afraid of what the answer could be.

_**She has to accept, **_came the Scarecrow's nagging voice. _**Otherwise she'll run away now and... she knows too much. **_Suddenly possibilities began turning over in Jonathan's head. Images of himself in a courtroom, on trial as members of Rachel's office questioned him about his plans, his compounds, his far-reaching underground drug trafficking network, while Rachel sat by in the stalls, flashed in and out of focus in his mind's eye, hypothetical proof but _proof _nonetheless of the dangers of truly opening up to her, the risks involved with bringing a third party into his work in a way so different to those he had attempted in the past. During his experiments with his patients at Arkham, he had always acted guardedly and kept the nature of the tests entirely secret, slipping his toxin into daily medication or administering it via injection while his subjects slept – this way they never knew, and nobody suspected a thing. However, if he went ahead with _this_, if he allowed himself to trust Rachel in a way he had never trusted anyone else in the past, he would have to make sure his hold on her remained tight and unwavering. She couldn't wander, she couldn't stray... not anymore.

_**Too late to back out now, Johnny. **_He swallowed. "What happened last night," he began. "But controlled, and repeated... with different compounds."

To his surprise, she didn't back away immediately. Instead, she stared down at the floor for a moment, absently twirling a dark tendril of hair around her finger. "I don't understand."

"Rachel." He rolled up onto his knees and leant toward her, wrapping his arms around her waist and bringing his face to within inches of hers. Her skin felt hot against his and he pulled her even closer, savouring her warmth and the way in which their bodies seemed to fit together like corresponding jigsaw pieces. "I want you stay here and help me to further my studies. I want you to assist me in my work," he told her, feeling her eyelashes flutter against his skin as he gently kissed her temple. "Last night... you might not want to admit it, but the drugs changed you, Rachel. They released you from whatever had been holding you down – your life, your job, this whole fucking city – even if it only lasted for a few hours. And I want you to feel that freedom again. I want to _help you _to feel like that again."

She closed her eyes as his nose brushed against her cheekbone. "So... what?" Her tone showed no signs of either agreement or disgust, just a bemused kind of curiosity he had never heard there before.

"So stay with me. Stay with me and help me test my compounds, help me to make them perfect. You won't have to worry about anything ever again."

"I have a job," she reminded him quietly, but there was something half-hearted, something lackadaisical in the way she spoke. It was as if she was forcing her mind to think rationally for a moment. "Remember?"

"A job that's going nowhere," he said, his tone more harsh than he had intended. Her eyes flew open and fixed on his. "You're fighting a losing battle, Rachel. You're fighting on behalf of a society that you disagree with and that's so completely broken criminals and mob bosses are able to walk around the streets right under the noses of judges and police officers without batting an eyelid." He trailed one of his hands down beneath the robe to the small of her back, caressing it gently. "If you can't beat them, join them, right?"

"Jonathan, I can't go back to how I was then, I just can't..." she argued weakly, her resolve visibly slipping as his hand moved forward, around her hip until it reached the apex of her thighs.

"Why not?" he murmured against the skin of her neck, his fingers dextrously teasing her sensitive flesh and earning a shuddering moan from Rachel. "You've let them hold you back for too long, Rachel. Be who you were meant to be." Her spine arched and her legs parted slightly, allowing him more leeway with his movements. "Stay with me. You'll be able to feel whatever you want as easily as swallowing a pill. And I won't let anybody hurt you. You'll be safe. Whatever happened to you all those years ago... it won't happen now. I'll look after you."

Her breathing was coming quick and hot against his cheek and she wrapped her arms around his neck as her lust slowly consumed her – her muscles began to contract and ripple around his fingers and she held on to him more tightly, whispering his name like a prayer against his lips as her pleasure peaked like a tidal wave and came crashing down over her seconds later.

He held her close as she came down from her cloud of ecstasy and stroked her hair, smiling as he felt her eyelashes flutter like the delicate wings of a butterfly against his chest.

"What if I say no?" she murmured, her voice trembling, her hand coming to rest over his heart, her fingers curling.

"You'll have to leave," he said simply, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, not even wanting to entertain the possibility of a negative response.

An infinite moment passed in which they sat completely still, the only slight movements of their bodies created by their pounding hearts, thudding out a steady rhythm. Then he felt her body shake, her lips curl up, as though she had laughed. He looked down. "Ok," she whispered, so quietly that he thought it may have been his imagination.

He pushed her hair back out her face, his heart skipping a beat, his head requiring confirmation. "What?"

"I'll do it," she told him, her cheeks flushed, her face set in steely determination. "I'll stay with you."

And with that, she brought their lips together before he had the opportunity to do so himself. _**Well played, Johnny, **_Scarecrow congratulated him grudgingly as Jonathan swung Rachel up into his arms and carried her out of the bathroom. _**Well played indeed. **_

/

A/N: From here on is where things begin to get dark and twisted, if that wasn't obvious enough ;D see you all soon (I say soon, hopefully soon) for chapter thirteen!


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